


Skyracer

by Rafun



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Alternate History, Alternate Reality, Berlin City, Best Friends, F/M, Friendship/Love, Fun, Gangs, Gen, Germany, Love, Motorcycles, Racing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:43:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rafun/pseuds/Rafun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It had started in small, local conflicts – some historians counted the second Iraq War as the first, some didn’t – but as oil and gas had run increasingly short, the fights had become bigger. There had been theories basically about using atomic bombs as an energy source, but before any experiments had been finished, Russia, China and the USA had gone to war about the reservoirs in Antarctica.</p><p>There had been no victors.</p><p>There hadn’t been a lot of anything left, once the bombs had finally stopped dropping, just fear and hunger and disease and shattered nations trying to rebuild what could not be repaired."</p><p>Meet the Queen, also known as Syfa, chief of one of the more influential gangs of Berlin, the notorious Claws. Syfa is only nineteen years old when she has to deal with a full blown Gang-war, the police, intrigues within her own gang and, worst of all, her mother's love life.</p><p>An Alternate Reality of our own world, finished. Updates whenever I remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jumping the bridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talomor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talomor/gifts).



> It's all Talomor's fault. Really. I wouldn't have written this if it wasn't for her. Probably.

Jumping the bridge

 

The angry roar of heavy engines broke the silence of night over the city of Berlin. A group of bikers in dark leather jackets stood in the light of a single streetlamp next to their motorbikes, waiting. Hunched, shadowlike figures appeared between the decayed buildings or sneaked out of the nearby apartments; hungry street kids, weary workers from the factories, teenagers with no job at all, and a few men who had somehow managed to become old. They all huddled together on the narrow side-walk, talking quietly. A baby’s cry rose above the muted mumbling among the waiting, and here and there a few coins clinked. A keen listener might have caught words as “three on Rust” or “ten on the Queen.”

The sudden rumble of yet another motorcycle stirred the crowd. Cheers erupted from the small group of onlookers. A woman in fatigues and heavy boots stopped her elegant machine with screeching tires right next to the other motorcycles. Her face was hidden behind the visor of her helmet, held in place on one side by a dirty strip of tape.

“Hey Queen, thought you wouldn’t dare show at all,” one of the other drivers called, kicking his engine alive.

“In your dreams, Dal,” The newcomer laughed. “Ready, y’all?”

Twelve bikes roared in reply and filled the darkness with thunder. A little boy climbed the pole of a long-dead traffic light. At the top he opened the box that held the lamps and connected cut wires within. The light flickered red, yellow, then green. Earsplitting noise erupted as the drivers dashed off and the crowd cheered them on.

 

The drivers forced their heavy machines at breath-taking speed through a treacherous course of rubble, wastes and ruins. It was a grim area, avoided by any reputable citizen, or at least by those reputable citizens above a certain pay-grade. The others probably didn’t count anyway.

  
Neither Queen though nor her friends ware anything like reputable citizens of any pay-grade. The dark alleys and backyards of Berlin’s low-town belonged to gangs and criminals who fought out their disputes in mad races and open war.

Not tonight, though. Tonight was just for training, for fun, which didn’t stop anyone from teasing everything out of their souped-up, brightly painted and hand-assembled collections of spare-parts. With a game roar of his engine Dal passed Jonathan, throwing a look over his shoulder. He’d nearly taken the lead, but from behind Queen and Rust came up at very nearly insane speed, caught up in their own duel. The casings of their bikes had connected and both tried to get rid of the other. Dal looked ahead again, when a wild scream in his helmet’s radio and a crash told him that Queen had won. He smiled grimly and concentrated on the course ahead.

Jonathan swore softly as Rust went into a wild spin, almost taking him down as well. Only at the last second he managed to swing it and skid around the wreckage. Brakes squealed and tires screeched and more curses were uttered as more drivers avoided the toppled bike, while up ahead Dal had taken the lead, Queen hard at his heels. The two of them would fight it out between each other, as they usually did.

There were no onlookers at the sides of the course anymore, which was just as well. Another driver wavered in his tracks and scraped along a wall, forcing Jonathan a second time to jam the brakes and jerk the bike around wildly, again almost crashing himself.

Up ahead Queen and Dal were rushing along side by side. Queen’s wild laughter was ringing over the radio as she dived into the next turn. In front of the two drivers the course narrowed down into a small passage between two buildings. Only one bike at a time could pass the breach, one would have to give way, but neither of them was going to give up lead.

It was Queen who pulled over into Dal who swerved to avoid a fall, forcing him to slow down to avoid crashing into the wall ahead. Queen took the lead, passing the breach in front of him. Cursing her and his own inadvertence, Dal followed her and fought to overtake her on the other side. He could still hear her laughing, jeering, when he saw his chance. In front of them the road parted, the race-track making a sharp turn to the left, because the old bridge that lay straight on had collapsed during the Great War more than thirty years ago to never be repaired. As Queen pulled just a little to the right, Dal overtook her on the inside of the turn, leaning so deeply into the curve he almost lost his grip on the road. As he took the lead, Queen made a daredevil choice. Instead of entering the curve behind him, she brought her bike back into line, speeding towards the bridge.

There it was, that smallest part of the wide gap. With utmost concentration, Queen accelerated even further, teasing every bit of speed out of the engine.

  
Then she reached the chasm, and with a wild scream she pulled into the jump.

Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice whispered something about suicide, but it was a small voice and it came too late, she was flying already, flying for a small eternity, pure adrenaline boiling in her veins. Then she landed.

Hitting a wall at a hundred miles an hour had to feel like this, even though the pressure came from below.

Queen could feel how she lost control of her bike: Somehow she had managed to avoid falling at the initial impact, but she had come down too far to the right, too close to the wall blocking this side of the bridge. The brakes had jammed and the bike was sliding madly as she forced it around with every ounce of strength she possessed. Skidding, she came to a halt. Gasping for breath she straightened out the bike and dashed through the barely a yard wide split in the barrier and back onto the track.

The whole thing had taken but a few seconds, yet it felt like hours to Queen. The stink of charred rubber slowly crept into her helmet. Her knees felt all flabby, and her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold the handle. At the same time she was filled with the high of knowing she had cheated death another time.

She was still feeling squeamish as she passed the finishing line drawn in chalk as winner, but the exultation of the crowd drove the fear away.

 

(‖)

 

Malina was still new to living in low town. Just a few months ago, she had run away from home and an arranged marriage to a stranger. For a while she had traveled through Berlin rather aimlessly, until she had reached the area her parents would have called low town. Low town, because all those fortunate enough not to live there, felt they were standing above all those who did, in every aspect. Malina couldn’t remember those days, but in school she had learned that the city hadn’t always been divided into up and low town, that all of Prussia had once had a functioning system to care for the poor, back in the days when Bavaria had still been called Germany.

That had been a long time ago, before the big crises, before first oil and then power had run out, before the Energy Wars. There was no agreement of how many there had been. It had started in small, local conflicts – some historians counted the second Iraq War as the first, some didn’t – but as oil and gas had run increasingly short, the fights had become bigger. There had been theories basically about using atomic bombs as an energy source, but before any experiments had been finished, Russia, China and the USA had gone to war about the reservoirs in Antarctica.

There had been no victors.

There hadn’t been a lot of anything left, once the bombs had finally stopped dropping, just fear and hunger and disease and shattered nations trying to rebuild what could not be repaired.

Old and new elites had reached for power, industrialists and tycoons, old nobilities and young generals, who thought they could do better. A new order was forged. Energy saving was the new battle cry, and it was amazing what could be justified with that. Social benefits and welfare were killed, agriculture renewed. Canola was grown to make diesel from the oil, and old coal mines were re-opened to scrape up whatever was left down there. Society stepped backwards, back into a dual-class society, triple-class society really, with the elites on top, landed gentry or money nobility, however they justified themselves, second bourgeoisie, painstakingly staying apart from the labouring classes and those without any class at all, the gangs, criminals and homeless.

Malina was from the bourgeoisie, but she had chosen low town. She loved it. After twenty-one years living with the babbitts and their petty moralities, she finally felt truly alive. There were no curfews here, no closing hours, no dress code. Instead there were kids playing on the streets at almost every hour and pubs full of thieves and bootleggers, and families taking turns to sleep in the only bed, and very little bland suavity, but a lot more blunt honesty.

And there were the gangs, gangs of all sizes, which ruled low town. Malina had been lucky, that much she had realized by now. One of the more powerful groups, the Claws, had taken her under wing, after she had happened to sleep a night at the threshold of their headquarters. Since that day, she was working as a waitress at the Claws local.

“Sugar,” they called her. Most members had such monikers, sometimes used as honorary titles. Malina’s new name wasn’t exactly flattering though, rather a little pejorative. It just meant that she was a sweet little girl, one you didn’t really take all that serious. A full gang-member – or a great beauty – wouldn’t have been called “Sugar”.

There wasn’t much going on yet; just a few teenagers hung around a table in the corner, playing cards. Loud cheers outside though announced the end of one of the madcap motorcycle races the Claws held almost every week. Soon the little bar would be packed to the rafters. Malina looked around for her co-workers and was relieved to see, that they were all there. On racing nights, even all four of them together just barely managed. Tami smiled at her. The girl was only fourteen, but unlike Malina she had grown up on the streets. No one would have called her Sugar.

Already the first tide of people was rolling in, bellowing their orders. Malina handed out drinks, and struggled to keep a low profile while looking like she knew her way around the place. By now, she had learned the principle that those shouting the loudest were always served first, or of course those, who actually had money to pay. She was just a little too slow still, as people would let her know constantly.

Loud exultation outside caught everyone’s attention. Speaking choirs were chanting something Malina couldn’t quite understand, and more and more people gathered to see what was going on. Malina didn’t leave her place, though she too was curious to see what was happening. A bike’s engine was revved and silenced, and the cheers grew even louder.

A young woman in fatigues and leather jacket entered the bar, and the crowd parted to let her pass. A wide grin made her eyes gleam as she raised her arms high above her head in a pose of triumph. Malina froze as she understood the chanting, and realized what it had to mean.

“Skyracer! Skyracer!” intoned the mob over and over again. “Jumped the bridge – new record – what a daredevil – madness – time to party!” the voices shouted all together. That last outcall was generally consented and the crowd stormed the bar to get drinks. Somebody turned up the speakers and loud music filled the tightly packed room.

Somebody waved Malina over and with a shock she recognized Syfa, nicknamed Queen, the winner of the last race. She was “the Claw,” chief of the gang and easily the most extraordinary woman Malina had ever met.

Malina moved over to her place at the bar and asked in the slang of low town, “Joke or Gomba, Queen?”

Syfa grinned and replied in the same tone: “Sweet, kiddo, you’re getting there! Joke.”

Malina turned to fill a glass with the brown, sharp-smelling liquid, and hardly noticed the fact that she was being called “kiddo” by someone at least two years younger. That was just low town for you. Carefully, she handed the Queen the glass of Joke. Malina had only tried the drink once, and she wasn’t tempted to do so again. Gomba she had never even tried, since she had been warned that it was even stronger than Joke.

Syfa drank both like water.

Malina got distracted by other orders, but forced herself to keep an eye on the Queen. You didn’t leave Syfa the Claw waiting, whether she was shouting or not.

Suddenly Jonathan was sitting next to Syfa, and waved her over. Malina felt heat rising up to her face. She was always particularly clumsy in his presence, because she could hardly look away from him. He was just too handsome to be fair, and sometimes she imagined that he was looking at her as well - which was certainly just wishful thinking.

Malina walked over, but hardly heard what he said. Syfa laughed mockingly, Jonathan however just repeated his order. When Malina finally handed him a glass of beer, he smiled at her. She could feel a blush forming and turned away quickly, but she could still hear Syfa saying: “You like her, dontcha?”

Malina turned hot and cold at the same time, and paused to hear Jonathans answer.

“She is pretty,” he said, “compared to you, zebra…” The last was a reference to Syfa’s long ponytail, which was striped in so many colours that you could only guess on the original hue. Syfa nearly roared with laughter, and several Claws joined in. Malina though had to reach for the counter to hold onto. She knew of course that Jonathan had been joking – no one could measure up to the Queen.

She tried not to listen to them. She had heard before how Syfa and her second-in-command had bantered in that tone, though this was the first time she herself was topic of their conversation.

Another young man took place next to them. Duff was his name, or Dal, Malina wasn’t quite sure. The only thing she knew about him was that he was a good friend of Jonathan. She took his order and served another Joke.

“Cool jump, really,” she heard Dal say. “Even though it cost me my win.”

Syfa tossed her zebra-mane back and retorted: “I’d got you one way or the other, Dal, count on that.”

“Wanna bet?,” Dal replied tauntingly.

“You’d lose that one anyway,” Syfa replied dismissively and smiled tauntingly at him over the rim of her glass.

“You’re just scared to take me, one on one,” Dal gave back.

Syfa straightened up on her seat, blue eyes flashing. “Are you drunk to suggest I am scared of anything?”

Jonathan laughed and slapped them both on their backs. “Chill, guys. We just had a race.”

“Skyracer!” somebody shouted in confirmation, and others joined in.

Jonathan winked at Dal. “Wait til next week with your revenge. It’s not like you got a choice.”

Syfa casually slid her glass over to Malina, who was busy pouring in two glasses of Joke at the same time. “Gomba,” she demanded. “And hurry up a little.”

Malina nodded and looked around for the other girls, who had all hands full themselves. Jonathan smiled encouraging at her, and she almost dropped the bottle she had been handling. For half a second she hoped nobody had noticed, but then she saw Syfa’s smirk and heard her say: “Come on, it’s unfair if you distract her. Poor Sugar got it hard enough.”

Everybody laughed. Everybody, except for Jonathan, as Malina noticed. Instead, he put an arm around Syfa’s shoulders and said in an exaggeratedly soothing voice: “You’re just jealous cause I never smile at you like that.”

Several people, low-ranking gang-members and newbie’s like Malina, caught their breath surprised. You couldn’t talk like that to the Queen! But Syfa just freed herself from Jonathan’s reach and laughed insouciantly. Malina didn’t join the laughter, but she managed to smile back at Jonathan.

 

The night spun away, but Malina soon felt how she became more and more tired while the gangers became more cheered up. And more thirsty. The music stirred the crowd. Since there was very little room on the floor, some girl began dancing wildly on the tables, soon to be followed by others. Syfa vanished for a while and returned in clothes more suited for a party than her leather jacket, boots and sweatshirt. She was still wearing her fatigues though when she returned in sneakers and a very tight-fitting black top with a neckline that didn’t leave a lot to imagination. Jewelry blinked everywhere on her, but it was her grin that flashed the brightest. It didn’t surprise Malina that she had every guy’s attention, and the envy of pretty much every girl. Not that they had much to worry about. Hitting on the Queen was said to be one of the more dangerous dares among the Claws.

“She can dance as good as she drives,” somebody said close to Malina to everybody’s amusement.

“Right now probably better,” Jonathan murmured, who was still leaning against the counter, only for Malina to hear. When he saw her confused face, he smiled and added: “No one can drive straight after two Jokes and a Gomba, not even Syfa… though she sure can handle quite a lot.”

He laughed and took another sip. He was still at his first beer, as Malina noted. She looked back over to the tables that had been declared dance floor. She felt she needed to say something, but she couldn’t get out a sound. It was quite confusing to get so much attention from Jonathan. She would have liked to ask him to dance, but she didn’t dare.

She had been one of the best in the small uptown dance class of her old home, but there only waltz was taught, a tango at the most. Malina grinned when she thought of the face her dancing instructor would make if he could see what was presented here.

As if he had read her thoughts, Jonathan asked: “Wanna dance?”

“I – I don’t know,” Malina stuttered, nonplussed, but Jonathan just grabbed her hand and dragged her out behind the counter. In a knee-jerk reaction, Malina tried to free her hand, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He pulled her along, over to the tables and lifted her up before she could protest. He followed elegantly.

Malina tried to breathe calmly. She didn’t like being moved around like a baby-doll, but she didn’t have time to think about it, and instead focused on the music. She had tried at home in her little room, but to do it here in front of everybody, in front of Jonathan who was watching her expectantly, was quite different. Slowly, a little embarrassed, she began to move. After a moment she became more secure of herself and soon she was dancing free and careless with all the others. Every now and then she met with Jonathan, but there were no real partners, everybody danced with everybody and tried not to fall down.

After a while Malina had to return to the bar, because it was getting full at the counter again. Suddenly Syfa stood in front of her again. “You dance pretty posh,” she noted, grinning, drinking her second glass of Gomba.

 

It was long after midnight before the room emptied out slowly. Around half past three, most seats were empty; only in the corners one or two couples where still laying in each- other’s arms. Malina wiped the tables clean while her co-workers Lenna, Tami and Paria washed the glasses.

Malina was so tired that she didn’t notice someone was standing in front of her, until Jonathan gently took the cleaning rag out of her hand. Surprised she looked up. Cleaning the tables and the rest of the taproom was the most unpleasant work at the bar (except from cleaning the toilets) which was the reason why it was dumped on Malina, the new girl. Malina hated it as much as the others, since quite regularly floor and tables were covered not only with the contents of tipped over bottles and glasses, but also with vomit, various body liquids and similar disgusting stuff. She didn’t dare yet to protest and demand other work, though. Being the newbie from uptown she had to proof herself first, otherwise the Claws might decide she wasn’t worth keeping around.

Jonathan, on the contrary, had spent all his life in low town and was second-in-command of the gang. It was rather unbelievable to Malina that he had to deal with such mundane things. Incredulous, she started at him. But he just pretended not to notice her confusion and continued to wipe up. Malina didn’t manage a word until he finally said: “If you have another rag, we’ll finish twice as fast.”

He smiled at her.

“But you – you…” Malina spluttered finally.

He laughed. “I can handle a rag just as well as you,” he replied. Malina didn’t know what to think, turned around and got another cloth. Together they cleaned up the remaining tables while sometimes having to step over those drunks who had collapsed on the floor. Paria and Lenna began to kick out the last of the patrons. Those who couldn’t walk on their own anymore were either supported by their cronies or removed by Lenna and Paria.

Lenna muttered tiredly: “I wonder why they never learn when they had enough.”

Nobody gave an answer. All were tired, but Malina was filled with a strange cheerfulness. She almost felt as if she was drunk as well, even though she had only had lemonade.

Finally the last table was cleaned and the last chair put up. Malina brushed up the shards of glass, and Jonathan behind her moped up puddles of alcohol. The room was comparatively clean tonight; still Malina noticed that she wasn’t the only one staring at Jonathan. Lenna and Tami were just as unable to move their eyes from him as she was. She was almost certain they were a little jealous.

And why not? Surely he had never helped them to clean the tables.

Or had he?

Without a word, Jonathan pulled her outside, which seemed to be a bit of a bad habit of his. Malina didn’t complain, though. Together they walked through decayed alleys. Rats scuttled through the shadows and laborers of the early shift nodded in greeting. Most people from the area knew Jonathan at least by sight.

“Where are we going?” Malina asked after a while, because he persisted in tugging at her sleeve instead of just telling her were to go.

“One of my favourite places,” Jonathan replied. “It’s to be a surprise.”

In the dim light of a street-lamp he flashed a smile at her, and Malina followed him on, curious, her heart racing. She didn’t know her way around low town very well yet, but it appeared to her that they were moving, while staying off the main roads, towards the city centre with its huge office complexes and exclusive shopping malls. They slipped through small alleyways between buildings or ruins and glided across dark backyards, many littered with all kinds of junk. Suddenly Jonathan stopped and gesticulated quietly for her to look up. They were standing in a narrow passageway between two rows of tenements, high above them a fine line of sky. There was a fire escape leading up the side of one building, which Jonathan climbed nimbly. Malina followed him more slowly. Narrow ladders of rusted metal led up the eight stories of the tenement, and she had to be careful where she placed her hands and feet. She winced softly when a splinter of rust bit into the palm of her hand, and looked up quickly, glad that Jonathan hadn’t heard. She didn’t want to be the winy girl from up town.

They reached a flat roof, which had a little tower on top of it, four posts supporting a little platform with a guardrail and a roof. Malina recognized one of the old watch towers that had been built for anti-aircraft during the war, mostly by the empty mountings where the telescopes had once been. The cannon that belonged to it was missing as well. Most likely the Claws had scooped it.

Together they climbed up to the little cockpit, which was mostly occupied by a high, rotatable pole of intricate mechanics. Malina examined it closer while trying to catch her breath a little. Apparently, from here the soldiers had been operating the weaponry on the roof, which was gone. Malina jumped when Jonathan swung himself onto the railing, crouching there for a moment and grinning at her, before he pushed himself up. Malina stepped closer just in time to see how he heaved himself up onto the top of the tower. She leaned over the guardrail but couldn’t see more than his shadow, lying flat on the roof, when he already reached for her. “C’mon up,” he whispered.

Malina looked up to him, then down onto the tenement. The tower wasn’t high, but she still felt a little shaky when she swung one leg up onto the railing and struggled to drag herself up. She clung to one of the posts holding the little tower, and gladly accepted the hands Jonathan offered her. It was more his pulling than her climbing that brought her up with him, and for a second Malina leaned against him with closed eyes, trying to breath calmly. Her fingers closed around a protuberance of metal, which had probably once fastened the missing gun. Jonathan put an arm around her and whispered: “Open your eyes and look around.”

Malina cast her eyes down and was speechless with wonder. Deep below them the lights of the city with its streets and squares blinked. It looked like a mirror image of the sky on quiet waters. Underneath them thousand stars gleamed, above them the morning star was still twinkling. Behind them, cast in deep shadows, was low town with its dark backyards and small alleys. In the east the first light of the new day was just a pink hint. Finally, Malina breathed: “I’d never thought the city could be so beautiful.”

An anti-aircraft tower was not exactly her first idea of a romantic hide-out, but admittedly, this was just fine.

“It has its nice parts,” Jonathan replied. “Though they usually don’t come from low town.”

Together they sat on top of the old gun turret and stared down on the waking city, talking and leaning against each other. Sunrise above Berlin was beautiful to look at, and only when the city was already awake, they climbed down again and slowly walked though low town. When they reached the street where Malina had found a place to sleep, she had the strange feeling to come home. She felt great. Here was where she belonged.

 

(‖)

 

Syfa had left the bar around three a.m. more than just slightly inebriated, though as Jonathan had said, she could handle quite a lot. Being drunk didn’t stop her from driving through the empty streets though, again wearing the clothes from the race.

She was in a strange state of mind. She was drunk and tired to death, but she just couldn’t calm down. Over and over she recalled the moment when the ground had dropped away underneath her and gravity had released her for just one moment. She had almost kicked the bucket there…

 _Almost – not quite!,_ she smiled.

Without thinking about it she steered the bike down the course and relived every moment of the race. At the junction she stopped. This was where Dal had forced her aside. Whether he had expected her to take the right lane? Certainly not.

Slowly, she moved onward. At the chasm in the bridge she stopped, climbed of the bike, and stepped up right to the edge. For a long time she stared down. She was feeling dizzy at the thought of what would have happened if anything had gone wrong. She shuddered. Down there was in the dark of the night no ground visible. If she had made any mistake… If she had crashed like Rust, who luckily had only wrecked his bike…

But she hadn’t crashed. A triumphant grin spread across her face and she sat down at the edge. High from another shot of adrenaline she let her legs dangle over the chasm. She had done it. She had jumped the bridge. Try as he may, it would be a while before Dal could match that. She had proven again that she was fit to lead the Claws.

For a while she just sat there, enjoying the sweet intoxication. Alcohol and adrenaline invigorated her equally. For a mad second she considered starting the bike and jumping again. How much run up would it take to reach the necessary speed?

A soft breeze blew and goose-bumps appeared on her arms. Somewhat shakily she swung back all the way onto the bridge and stepped next to her machine. Before she started again, she spit down into the dark deeps.

Slowly she drove back through the narrow streets, where no policeman was ever seen. On one of the backyards she stopped and parked her bike. As chief of the Claws she didn’t have to worry that someone would steal it. Through a small door she entered one of the huge tenement blocks where the poorest inhabitants of Berlin lived. As soon as she entered the hall-way she took off the heavy boots she wore while driving to avoid making too much noise. She knew by experience how thin the walls were and she didn’t want to wake the whole house. As she climbed the stairs she staggered a little and it took her a moment to fit the key into the lock at the third floor. While riding the bike no one could have told how many drinks she had had, but with both feet on the ground things were quite different.

“Bloody Gomba,” she muttered. “Gonna have a head-ache tomorrow.”

Then finally the door opened, which creaked softly. She closed it as careful as she managed but the lock snapped loudly when it shut.

Syfa sneaked through the hallway towards the little kitchen and closed the door but for a small gap. Tired, she dropped into one of the chairs of cheap plastic. There was some left-over soup in a pan on the stove. Apparently her mother had waited for her with dinner. Syfa sighed and rose to turn on the stove and make some coffee. The aromatic smell woke her spirits somewhat. That was the only luxury her mother treated herself to: real coffee, not that lousy stuff from the supermarket. Syfa sat down at the kitchen-table with a cup of coffee and a small plate of soup, and wearily started eating.

“Sifaril?” a voice from behind asked and a hand was placed on her shoulder. Syfa jolted.

“Mother? I’m so tired, I didn’t even hear you come in,” she said. With her mother she only spoke real German, not the twisted mush of languages known as slang, which was unintelligible to all those who had not grown up with it. “Have a seat, there’s coffee.” She rose swaying and looked up into her mother’s face, who was standing in the kitchen in her bathrobe. “What time is it?” she asked yawning. “I’m horribly tired.”

“It is not surprising that you are tired,” her mother said, while Syfa poured another cup of coffee. “It is a little after five. Did you just come in?”

Syfa nodded and put the freshly filled cup down, spilling some of the coffee. She swore softly in slang. Her mother shook her head. On her face a smile was fighting the worries. “You are drunk again,” she sighed, but she didn’t manage to sound all that severe when she added: “You know that you must not drive when you are drunk.”

Syfa said down and didn’t say anything. Her mother knew full well what status she had among the Claws, and she wasn’t exactly happy about it, but had mostly resigned. So to not worry her even more she didn’t say anything about the race from last night. Marielle was an honest, hardworking woman who took the gangs with a grain of salt and hadn’t liked it very much when her daughter had dropped out of school to join the Claws.

They drank their coffee in silence. They didn’t need many words. As long as Syfa could remember she and Marielle had lived alone, first on the west-side in the area of the Crows, later here, in the north of Berlin under the wings of the Claws.

The resemblance between them was amazing, as if Syfa was a younger copy of her mother. The same, harmonious features, the same even nose, the same full lips. Syfa had inherited her mother’s silky smooth hair as well, though Marielle’s was shiny brown with just a few, hardly noticeable grey hairs and not striped as Syfa’s at the moment rather wild mane.

After a time of silence Marielle rose and ran a hand over Syfa’s head. “I need to get dressed now, my shift is starting soon. And you,” she smiled wearily, “you my dear should go to bed now.”

Syfa nodded and got up as well. As she left the kitchen she gave her mother a fleeting kiss on the cheek. Then she went, somewhat swaying, over to her small room which was crammed with all kinds of stuff. Marielle shook her head and went into her bedroom which was clean and tidy. Quickly she got dressed and heard how Syfa got ready for bed in the bathroom. Marielle went to the front door and called: “Good night – good morning, I mean. Sleep well.”

“Have fun,” was the sleepy answer. 


	2. Babysitter needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just another day at low-town... almost.

**Babysitter needed**

 

Marielle stepped out of the door. The sun was rising slowly above the roofs and in first daylight the streets looked different. People hurried to get to work where just a few hours ago adolescents had held their ludicrous races. Marielle smiled. During the day low town belonged to the workers and laborers and other reputable men. On some intersections of bigger streets there even were police-men ensuring that traffic ran somewhat smoothly, despite the broken or hijacked traffic-lights and the odd assembly of vehicles on the roads. Real cars running on gasoline were a luxury few in low town could afford, but there were still enough of them around to swear rather ungentlemanly at the slower steam-cars, tricycles, bicycles, and other collections of spare-parts which clogged the roads

Those who didn’t want to or couldn’t afford to take their chances with traffic queued up at the trolley-platform. Trolleys were the cheapest way to get anywhere around Berlin, and while they never stayed true to any schedule, they did go through roughly every quarter of an hour.

This morning, Marielle didn’t have to wait long before a car pulled up. She stepped onto the trolley and traveled together with hundreds of others towards the big factory where she was working.

It was overcrowded and rather intimate at the car. Marielle was watching the people around her when the trolley came to a sudden stop. Silence fell. Three big figures in black leather jackets entered the car, though they weren’t at any station. The driver sat resigned on his seat and didn’t object, and there were no police-men around since they were on one of the smaller side-alleys, far away from the bigger and safer main roads. Marielle sighed. She was still in low town. No daylight would change that.

One of the three brutes called in bad German: “Protection tax. No one leave car. Pro tax of the Claws.”

All around her workers groaned and began to search their pockets. While Marielle reached into her own jacket she noticed a young woman who was traveling with two little boys, obviously her sons, and looking around in confusion. “What is going on?” she asked, tense, and watched worriedly as two of the men crossed the car towards her.

“Protection tax,” one of them said. “You pay.”

“Protection tax?” The mother was bewildered and scared. “Why? I – I don’t need protection. And I have no money, either!”

The bailiff didn’t have the patience to explain the rules of low town to the young woman who was obviously new to this part of Berlin. “You need protection. You pay. Now,” he growled.

“I – I can’t,” the woman whispered. The second guy moved over. He looked vaguely familiar to Marielle, and he didn’t look very pleased with the hold up. “You pay,” he said, raising his fist. “Or…”

Marielle didn’t doubt that he would knock the woman down to drag her out of the car and the Claws’ territory. Her daughter’s territory, she thought with a shiver. If anything happened to this woman and her children, it would be on Sifaril’s slate.

For a second Marielle hesitated, but then she pushed through the onlookers over to the young mother.

“She is with me,” she said and tried to sound self-assured and confident. The bailiffs stared at her, surprised and angry. “They are traveling with me,” she repeated, falling into slang now. She raised her arm and showed her bracelet, a fine silvery band with miniature Claws fastened to it. She knew she was stepping on thin ice there. Sifaril had given her that bracelet. It meant that Marielle was under the wings of the Claws and offered excellent protection against assaults of all kind, since even members of hostile gangs thought twice before they started a fight with the Claws over the contents of a worker’s purse, not to speak of thieves without gang back-up.

But Marielle wasn’t completely sure just how much influence her daughter had right this moment on her own people. She was their chief, sure, but she didn’t have absolute control over the gang. Marielle remembered all too well the time when Sifaril had just reached leadership, a time where she constantly had to prove herself. How many times had she come home after some duel bruised and bleeding!

Marielle knew that she was risking going out on a limp here. The bracelet granted protection of the Claws only to her individually. It was not transferable or valid for more than one person, and most importantly it didn’t give her the authorization to order gang-members around. Now everything was depending on Sifaril’s authority.

The two Claws looked at each other surprised and one of them extended a huge hand to examine the bracelet very gently. For a moment they deliberated quietly, then one of them left. The other one planted himself in front of Marielle and declared: “We gonna examine this matter.”

The other passengers in the car retreated as far as possible from them. They all worried that this affair wouldn’t play out peacefully. Marielle’s heart-beat was speeding up as well. Hopefully, she wasn’t putting Sifaril in troubles here, not to speak of herself. The second bloke returned with a man in his early thirties in tow, whom Marielle knew from sight. He sometimes rode his bike with Syfa.

“What’s going on here, Marielle?” he asked in slang, annoyed.

Marielle explained, trying to sound self-assured and relaxed. “This young lady and her children are with me. They won’t pay the protection tax, Mo.”

Thank heavens she had remembered his name just in time!

Mo looked at her bracelet and then at the two little boys who were hiding behind their mother. “Syfa gave that to you?” he asked, bored, and looked at her arm again. Marielle nodded and Mo rolled his eyes. “I’m sure Syfa told you that it’s only valid for one person.”

Marielle’s mind raced. She was in big trouble now. Mo stared at her, waiting. His impassiveness scared Marielle. Did he know she was Sifaril’s – _Syfa’s_ – mother? Would that even make a difference to him? She knew some rumors about him that didn’t sound very encouraging. Nervous, she rubbed her hands together. Mo’s eyes narrowed and he searched her face again carefully. Suddenly his expression and stance turned friendlier.

“Neil says, no special treatments,” one of the bailiffs muttered, anxious.

Mo choked him off. “I don’t give a shit what Neil says. I’m responsible for collecting the taxes, so this is my decision alone. Anyway… do you want to argue with Queen, Dave, after last night? With ‘Skyracer’?”

He looked at Marielle again. “I think we’ll be okay for this time. Speed it up a little!”

With that he returned to the front of the car and the bailiffs continued their work, throwing angry stares at Marielle and the young woman who still wasn’t quite getting what was going on. Marielle made a short notice in her mind to ask Sifaril later what exactly had happened last night. What was this about “Skyracer?”

Not much later the Claws left the car and the trolley moved on. Marielle noticed how the other passengers tried to keep their distance, giving her nervous side-glances. That she knew the bailiffs of the Claws by name and even risked an argument with them didn’t make her look exactly trust-worthy. On the other hand, the mother with her kids moved over closer. She looked flustered but as it looked she had decided to put her trust in Marielle.

As the trolley-car emptied out with the laborers exciting at different factories, she looked around helplessly. Like someone who didn’t know where to go next. When Marielle left the car, she followed.

“Please excuse me,” she began, while her boys stared at the yard in front of the factory, curious. Marielle paused and turned towards her. She had a few minutes time left.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I – I am new here and…”

“And you are looking for work?” Marielle sighed. “Where are you from?”

“From up- – from Schöneberg,” the mother replied. She stared at the ground. “My husband worked at the office of Technopower, but then there was that fire and we – well, so now here we live.”

She straightened up. “I have heard there is a lot of work to do here. I’m strong, I will do anything.”

“You even might have a chance then,” Marielle replied brusquely. “Come along. I will see what I can do for you, but I’m just a worker myself. Those two will have to wait outside, if they are not supposed to work as well.” Marielle nodded over towards the two boys, and the mother stared at her, horrified. Marielle took pity on the small, shocked family and tried to calm the mother: “Don’t worry, they will be fine. I will see to it that someone takes care of them,” she said. “But please, what is your name?”

“Mrs. Becker. They are Thomas and Timeon.”

Marielle smiled at the boys and introduced herself: “My name is Marielle. Just Marielle. Come along now, Mrs. Becker.”

Mrs. Becker kissed her boys on the cheeks and told them to wait. Marielle sighed, but didn’t object. Mrs. Becker would adapt quickly to her new life. They always did, because those stranded in low town had no other alternative left than to adapt.

Together they entered the huge factory-building, in which on assembly-lines toys for the kids of the upper classes were produced.

There wasn’t much money to be made with this work, but there were far worse labors. Marielle signed in with the headman, and then introduced Mrs. Becker. “Can you put in a good word with the boss for her, Jon?” she took the man aside. “Don’t think she’ll make it on her own. Just fresh from uptown.”

Jon groaned, but he promised to take care of the woman because he still owed Marielle a favor, and those were worth more than money in low town.

 

Marielle watched Mrs. Becker leave with Jon and pulled out her cell phone, a soft sigh escaping her lips. There was a promise she had to keep.

Already at the fourth ring Syfa answered. “Hello?” she asked sleepily.

“It’s me, Sifaril,” said Marielle. “I am sorry to wake you up, but I need your help.”

“Oh great,” Syfa muttered. “What’s it this time?”

Marielle gave her a short summary of her trolley-ride and explained about Mrs. Becker and her children. “Somebody has to look after them. They are new here and they have no idea of the rules. Can you take care of that?”

Syfa groaned in protest. “Mother, this is low town, no kindergarten. The Claws can’t take care of every runaway street-kiddo.”

Marielles face went hard. Sometimes she forgot in what world her daughter lived. “Isn’t that what you all are, runaway street-kids?” she asked sternly.

For a moment there was silence on the other side, then Syfa hissed: “How dare you…? Are you crazy?” Then she paused and took an audible breath. Finally she growled: “All right, I’ll see to it. But only this once! And don’t ever think of pulling something like this off again!”

“Thank you,” Marielle muttered who already regretted her harsh words, but Sifaril had hung up on her even quicker.

 

Inside the factory Marielle donned her apron and waited. A moment later the big bell rang. Work started.

Promptly at six a.m. Marielle started her shift. It was dull work. Over and over again she screwed two pieces of metal together without ever seeing the final product, a small toy robot. Next to her an elderly lady who could barely stand anymore did the next step. At seven o’clock Jon returned, tailed by a still distressed Mrs. Becker.

“Naomi,” said Jon, and tipped the old one next to Marielle at the shoulder. “Boss wants to speak with you.”

The old woman stared horrified at him without stopping her work. Jon’s wrinkled face pulled into a smile. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he tried to comfort her, but Naomi whispered: “But the work – what about my work? I’ve got to…”

“Mrs. Becker is going to continue for you,” Jon said. “Just show her what she needs to do.”

The old Naomi looked back at the assembly line and put a small plate onto an equally small cube of metal. A machine reached for both parts and welded them together. Naomi reached for the next part, and the next one. It looked as if she had already forgotten that Mrs. Becker was watching her. Marielle and Jon looked at each other.

“Come now, Naomi,” Jon said and led the old woman away, who suddenly seemed to shrink into herself.

“What is it with her?” Mrs. Becker asked once she had found a rhythm in the task.

“She has worked here,” Marielle said. “Thirty years long, at exactly this same spot. Twelve hours a day without a single day of leave. Always the same movement, since the war.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Becker. A while they worked in silence, then Mrs. Becker asked, concerned: “What will happen to her? Will she be laid off?”

“I don’t think so,” Marielle replied slowly. “She’s too reliable. Hasn’t been late once and was never a day ill. Boss like people like that. Saves him money. Someone else might have to go, though.”

She looked around and spotted Naomi at the end of the line on a stool and smiled grimly. She liked Naomi, liked her a lot.

Jon came over. “For old Naomi a dream just came true,” he smiled. Marielle looked over again. The old woman’s face was radiant while she surveyed every little one of the little robots passing her with a still keen eye.

“What’s she doing now?” Marielle dug deeper.

“She’s examining the result of her work,” Jon explained. “After thirty years she finally gets to see what she’s been toiling for so hard. Lucky her. Every other her age the boss would have put on the street.”

With that he continued walking about and down the aisles of workers, whistling softly.

 

(‖)

 

At home, Syfa leaned against the wall next to the phone and rubbed her forehead. Who could she ring up at this time of day to look after two brats from uptown? Pretty much no one. She groaned. If this came out she could say good bye to the authority she’d earned just yesterday.

Syfa contemplated if she should wake somebody or go herself. Neither option was very appealing. For one, she couldn’t just order her people around town to babysit some spoiled rascals, and she herself on the other hand was rather hung-over and couldn’t stand children. (What the others at the gang would say if she went to play babysitter she didn’t even want to think about.) She sighed. Jonathan would probably do her the favor, but she didn’t feel like asking him. She was too proud for that. She didn’t want to owe him, and besides that he didn’t speak a word of real German.

 _Damn it,_ she thought, _that narrows down the options quite a bit_.

Then a thought crossed her mind. Without further ado she called Malina and was surprised when the phone was answered at once. Malina didn’t sound sleepy in the least, but wide awake instead.

“I just came in,” she replied on Syfas question. “I was out with Jonathan,” she added rather shyly.

Syfa let that pass and explained Malina what she wanted. Malina was willing to look after the boys at once. She didn’t ask why Syfa was making such a strange request, instead just wanted to know where exactly she would find the boys.

“At the toy’s factory, corner of Ringstraße,” Syfa explained.

It was silent for a moment, before Malina replied. “Okay, I’ll get going right away – just one more question, Queen: What about my work at the bar?”

Syfa sighed inwardly. “I’ll take care of that,” she replied shortly and hung up. A heavy fit of dizziness overcame her. To stay upright she leaned against the wall. Everything seemed to be spinning around her and she closed her eyes for a moment. She felt sick, she was thirsty and angry at her mother who had dragged her from her bed at the light of day with such a crackbrained demand. That Malina was obviously feeling perfectly fine after being awake all night didn’t help Syfa’s mood at all.

How dare Marielle insult the Claws who were like a family to her – and indirectly responsible for Marielle’s well being as well?

Really, if she hadn’t felt so ill, Syfa would have given her a piece of her mind, but right now she was too tired for a good fight. Asides from that, yelling at the phone was not nearly as effective. But that crap Marielle had pulled off today would have would have consequences. This wasn’t over yet with.

When the cupboard finally stopped switching places with the door she dared to walk the few steps over to the kitchen where she had a glass of water from the tap. Down on the street a truck was rumbling by and the noise made the hammering pain in her head even worse. Exhausted she went back to bed and was soon fast asleep again.

 

(‖)

 

Malina hurried to leave the house. She had already been told that the newbies in the gangs often got set to strange tasks to see how they handled themselves and whether they did as told without complaint, but she was a little surprised anyway. She hadn’t thought the Queen to care about little children, especially not about ones who came from uptown. Just to be safe she hadn’t said anything though. She didn’t actually care about the Queen’s reasons, because she liked kids and was looking forward to this. That she would not be wiping tables tonight was a nice bonus.

 _Just too bad that I won’t Jonathan now_ , she thought, and felt a nice tingle in her stomach when she thought of him. She took the trolley to get to her destination faster. At this time it was almost empty, just a few day-talers who hadn’t found work yet were riding as well. At the car nobody gave her a second glance. Everybody recognized by a pendant on her neck that she was one of the Claws’ clients. Nobody wanted trouble with a girl who wore the sign of a gang.

Quickly she reached the factory Syfa had described. Malina was the only one who left the car at this station and the platform was empty. But when Malina looked around she noticed two boys on a low, crumbling wall, which parted the little station and the yard of the factory.

One of them was eight, nine years at the most, the other one Malina guessed to be five or six. When they saw Malina approach, they huddled together closer. The older one put an arm around his younger brother.

Malina went down on her knees, so that her face was about level with the two siblings.

“Hello,” she began. “I am Malina.”

The two boys remained silent, so she asked. “What are your names?”

For a moment the boys looked at her silently, before the older one replied: “Mum says we aren’t to talk to no one till she comes back. And we mustn’t take any sweets,” he added.

Malina smiled faintly and sat down on the ground. “Then I’ll wait here with you for her. Your mother certainly won’t mind if I tell you something so long? You won’t need to answer, I mean.”

The older one looked confused, the younger one clung to him.

Malina thought for a moment. “I am Malina,” she repeated after a while. “I’m from Marienfelde. There we had a nice house with a big yard. Now I live here, in low town, without my parents. Here the houses aren’t as nice, are they?”

She looked up to the two brothers. Every now and then a tear was running down the younger one’s face, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away and he didn’t appear to be quite as scared anymore.

So Malina continued: “On the other hand, now I can meet my friends every day and I even got a job for myself, in a small bar here in low town.

Too bad you aren’t allowed to talk to me. I’d like to know whether you are from Marienfelde as well. It was really nice there. No empty walls like here, but big, pretty homes. And the yards were beautiful. All streets were clean.

But honestly, I like it here better,” she added, because the older one seemed to be about to cry as well. “My parents wanted me to marry a man I didn’t like. He was horrible, always mean and much older than me. So I ran away from home, to here. Now I have my own flat. It’s not very big, but nice and cozy. I can do whatever I want, every day. No one tells me ‘that doesn’t become you’ anymore or ‘a girl your age should not do this’. I can swear as much as I like, even the really bad words!”

The little ones on the wall made huge eyes. Slowly they seemed to lose their timidness. The younger one had even stopped to cry softly to himself.

Malina continued to list the good sides of low town. “Here the kids can play on the streets every day, everything they want – until the sirens go off and the grownups come home from work.”

“Don’t they have to go to school?” the older boy asked and Malina noticed his curiosity.

“Not if they don’t want to,” she replied, “they don’t have to. But of course they can go. How about you tell me your name?”

The boy thought about it. “My name is Thomas.” He looked at his brother, but he remained silent, so Thomas added: “His name is Timeon. He’s only five.”

Malina smiled brightly and asked: “And how old are you?”

“I’m eight,” Thomas replied. “Don’t you want to go to school?”

Malina shook her head. “I didn’t like school. The teacher always told me what I had to do, and it was always very boring. We had to stitch and cook and such things.”

“Ah well, girly stuff,” Thomas replied boastfully. “In my school we don’t do things like that. Mum says, I can go back to school soon, but she had to find work first.”

“Do you like going to school?” Malina asked and had to smile at the thought of what the others at the gang would say if they could see her now. They probably would have doubled over laughing at her last question. Nobody in low town liked school – at least nobody would have admitted to it willingly. But Thomas nodded enthusiastically and answered: “Oh yes, I’m looking forward to it. When I go to the new school we do nice things, like sums and writing and sports. I like sports. I can run real fast.”

“Do you play football?” Malina inquired.

Thomas nodded, excited. “Of course I play football. It’s my favorite game. At home we’ve played every day.” He thought about it and asked, less happy: “Do kids play football here as well?”

“Every day,” Malina replied. “Here they have no big fields, but many boys build their own goals and play on the street. Even the girls play, and they are really good.”

That quite obviously shocked Thomas and Malina had to fight back a grin. She could still remember how astonished she had been herself when she had seen for the first time how a girl had stolen the ball of a boy’s foot, on her very first day in low town.

 

(‖)

 

Syfa didn’t wake again until late afternoon. Her headache and the sickness had subsided; still everything went black in front of her eyes when she rose to stagger over to the bathroom. Only after she had showered she was more or less awake and could think about whom to send to the bar as replacement for Malina. It wasn’t exactly a popular job, but she’d find someone eventually.

To get rid of her headache she went into the kitchen where they stored painkillers in a drawer. She knew from experience that the pills didn’t exactly taste of honey, but at least they worked. It wasn’t easy for the average worker in low town to put their hands on decent medicine, but Syfa had the necessary sources. She did get the impression though that Marielle hadn’t yet fully understood just how hard it was to get these pills. When she counted them two packages were missing. With the amount of medicine Marielle used up one could have provided for the workforce of a whole factory…

She dissolved a bolus in a glass of tap-water and downed the bitter concoction in one go. Not much later she was rid of her headache and left the house. Today she wasn’t interested in talking to her mother, who would be back from work around seven.

On the street a bunch of kids were playing but made room for Syfa at once, when they noticed the sign of the Claws’ on her black leather jacket and the string around her neck from which little claws were dangling. They decorated her as a member of high rank. Curious looks followed her when she got her motorcycle and started.

 

She didn’t feel like driving to headquarters already, where no one expected her yet anyway. First she wanted to have some fun. Idly, she weaved through the narrow streets of low town until she reached a drive-up which led to one of the big main-roads. Rush-hour hadn’t set in yet; still there were already thousands of cars from the inner city trying to reach Autobahn. Deftly Syfa cleaved though the snarl-up. To her right and left it honked shrilly every time she cut someone off. Syfa laughed exuberantly. This was almost as good as a race against Dal.

When she reached the Autobahn, overtaking two trucks on the service line, suddenly sirens wailed behind her. Two police cars dashed out of the driveway of a parking lot where apparently they had been on the look-out. A feral smile spread over Syfas face. This was going to be a merry trip indeed. She let the policemen catch up who enjoyed the advantage that people were giving way for them readily, before turning up the throttle. The engine roared as she rushed down the lane at two hundred clicks.

Up ahead was a construction site where the asphalt was being replaced and one lane was closed. Swearing, the other drivers were queuing up, but Syfa didn’t even think about slowing down. Construction laborers hurried to jump aside as she tore into the site without slowing down. Which also got rid of the police for her. Driving on the site wasn’t all that hard for someone who was used to the parcourses of low town. Cheering inwardly and totally high from her own speed she jumped a few smaller holes in the ground and wriggled in slalom around the heavy equipment on the site.

She reached the end of the site. There was a near-crash when she dashed back onto the road, but Syfa didn’t worry about it. Suddenly the two police-men were back.

 _Though guys_ , Syfa thought, while she let the cars catch up again just to let them get a good sight of her back-light. Since she didn’t want to move away from the city too far she took an exit onto an Autobahn perpendicular to the first. The police followed her. This road was less crammed and Syfa could tickle out the last from her engines. Then she noticed a street sign and her grin grew even wider as she read: _“Speed limit 120 km/h, speed trap ahead.”_

A moment later she reached the flash unit, but Syfa didn’t even think about slowing down. Instead she freed one hand from the handle and raised it, clenched to a fist, towards the camera in a wild and menacing gesture. The feral smile on her face was hidden behind her helmet, but the people the picture was send to would rant and rave anyway.

Finally Syfa decided to return towards the city. The police stayed on her heels stubbornly, but when she entered the thick of low town where workers were hurrying for home on all streets, the eye of the law lost sight of her.

Unstressed, she roamed the narrow alleys.


	3. Challenges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's always trouble afoot

Challenges

 

Around half past six Syfa reached the Claws’ headquarters. It was located behind the little pub Malina worked at; a big, grim building not quite as run-down as the others in the area. The window shutters were colored black and onto the huge double door somebody had very carefully painted the sign of the Claws’. Even the light was working properly.

Just a year ago headquarter had resembled a garbage dump rather than the home of one of the most powerful gangs of Berlin, but since she had given Jonathan free rein as far as the building was concerned, it actually looked pretty good. It appeared to have become a bit of a hobby of his.

Syfa hurried up a flight of stairs and opened a door, also adorned by the sign of the Claws’. She smiled as she entered the room on the other side. Inside about a dozen younger and older Claws were gathered, who had made themselves comfortable on the variety of unmatched seats and chairs. The group was assembled of the best motorcyclists of the gang, the racing team, and Syfa’s trusted advisors and friends. In a corner a fridge hummed, in the middle of the room stood a large table, asides from that the room was pretty much empty. A stereo stood at the wall and played softly. When Syfa entered it was turned off at once.

“Hey, Syfa,” Dal greeted. Grinning he added: “And, how are you?”

“Great,” Syfa replied with a blank face. Dal laughed. He knew, of course, that after last night Syfa had to have been somewhat off-color.

“We hadn’t expected you yet,” Jonathan began, “but since you’re there already we can get started right away. The Droma isn’t informed yet; I wanted to tell you first. There’s trouble afoot, Queen.”

Syfa sighed. There was always trouble afoot. “What’s it this time?”

“The Skulls,” Jonathan replied, and clarified: “They want the area Luisengasse corner to Nordring.”

Syfa laughed humorless. “Anytime, anywhere. – And what if we don’t agree?”

“About that they want to negotiate with us,” Dal chipped in. “Tonight at Tony’s. At ten.”

“Tony’s gonna be thrilled,” Syfa grumbled. This night was certainly going to be interesting.

Tony was chief of a small gang which held the area between the Skulls and the Claws. It wasn’t a very comfortable position, because quite constantly there were frictions between the bigger gangs. Then they liked to use the Spiders’ headquarter as a neutral venue, often without bothering to inform the owners about their coming.

A girl with dark skin and curly, red-dyed hair which was braided into many little plaits, chimed in: “We got to make it plain to the Skulls right away that we won’t accept any of their demands.”

“Lenya is right,” Dal said. “We got to put them in their place.”

Syfa saw the worry on Jonathan’s face. This would all boil down to a nasty fight.

Rust, a big burly guy, seemed to heed the same concerns. “The Skulls are far superior in numbers to us,” he objected. “We should try to avoid a direct fight.”

“Coward,” Dal grumbled, and some of the others in the room joined in. When Jonathan took the word though, silence spread again. “Rust is right,” he said. “The Skulls would probably win a direct fight. But we can’t tolerate a challenge this brash either. I’d vote to negotiate first while making clear that we won’t give up the Nordring.”

“That’s not a point to negotiate!” Syfa exclaimed. Everybody looked at their chief. “All they’ll get from us is a no. If they want a fight, they can have it. They may have superiority in numbers, but I think if they do attack us they’ll get their fingers burned. And race we can better in any case.”

“Or jump, Skyracer,” Jonathan threw in, grinning, and everybody laughed. The atmosphere relaxed, and Syfa continued: “Let’s look at this situation from another angle: Within the last two years the Skulls have attacked pretty much every one of their neighbors, and won often enough as well. The Spider may officially be neutral, but they know the only reason they haven’t been swallowed up yet is because we won’t accept that, so they’ll have to support us by all means. The Wegas owe us a favor and we’ve treaties with the Crows. The Skull would have to be real stupid to take up a fight with us”

All around agreeable mumble was voiced. The gathered Claws were quite in favor of the idea of teaching the Skulls a lesson.

“So we send out the news that there’s more trouble with the Skulls?” Lenya asked. “I can get going right away.”

“No, you’ll stay,” Syfa ordered. “We’ll need you in case the Skulls wanna race about this.”

Pride showed on Lenya’s face that her chief deemed her worthy of representing the Claws. Many other gangs didn’t accept women on their racing teams, and Syfa herself had suffered a hard time when two years ago she had become youngest chief of all times. Many within the gang had felt that she had only gained the title because she had been favorite of Cluny the Claw who had founded the gang. At every race and every meeting of the Droma she had again been forced to prove her abilities, and even now there were voices speaking against her at pretty much every occasion.

Not today though, not after her jump over the old bridge. Today all Claws would listen when Syfa spoke. She let her eyes wander over the assembly. “KC, you’ll go,” she decided. “Make it plain to the Crows what’s going on.”

KC nodded readily and left the room. A moment later they could hear the roar of a motorcycle outside as he left for the western hood where the Claws had their seat.

“Did the Skulls say how many they will send to negotiate?” Rust asked.

“No,” Jonathan answered, “but we need to be sure we won’t be outgunned.”

Syfa nodded. “We’ll need to be at least at team numbers. So eight people.”

“Why don’t you just chose a team and we go in that formation?” Dal said.

Again there was an agreeing mumble, but Jonathan voiced his doubts: “I agree with you that we need this number of people to demonstrate strength and unity, but this is about negotiation, not racing. We don’t know whether they want to race at once. The rules don’t even allow that.”

Syfa knew what Jonathan wanted to say. The fastest drivers were not necessarily the most cunning diplomats. And something else had just come to her mind. “Is you bike ready again yet, Rust?”

Rust shook his head.

“Damn it,” Syfa swore. “All right…” She thought about it. “Could you take Jonathan’s machine if need be?”

Jonathan stared angrily at Syfa at this words but he didn’t protest. He knew that Rust was the better rider, and if the Skulls sought a decision at the race-track a victory was all that counted.

Rust looked at the second-in-command with distress and raised his hands in a half repelling gesture. “I guess, yeah.”

Syfa looked at him doubtful. “We’ll decide about it then and there,” she decided. “You’re both going anyway, as Lenya and Dal. Derrek, can I count you in?”

“Against the Skulls I’m always game. Got my beauty repaired just today,” a brawny blond guy gave back. He was older than the other drivers Syfa had named so far, in his late thirties. On his naked upper arms the sign of the claws shined proudly.

“Let me go, Syfa!” called a boy with long dread-locks and jumped from his seat excitedly.

“Tyson…” Syfa muttered thoughtfully. She exchanged glances with Dal and Derrek. Dal shrugged, then nodded, Derrek looked rather doubtful and made a swaying motion with his head. The young Tyson wasn’t even sixteen years old and quite a hot-head, not exactly suited for negotiations with another gang. But he was an excellent rider.

“No,” Syfa finally said.

Tyson stared at her for a moment angry and crestfallen, but then he lowered his head, looking away and sat down again. His hands were shaking with suppressed rage, but he accepted the rebuff without a word.

“Test passed, Tyson. You may go – if I can rely on you to keep your temper in check.”

Tyson looked up, his eyes shining. “I won’t disappoint you, Queen,” he promised, grateful for the chance to prove himself.

Dal suggested: “Take the twins, Syfa. Tyson can do the hare if need be, and they make a great clamp.”

Syfa tilted her head. “For a race, yes,” she said. “For negotiating I want you, Jacky. With me that makes eight.”

A dangerous smile appeared on Jacky’s beautiful face and she nodded.

Jonathan sent a messenger to the twins and asked: “What’s our strategy for tonight?”

“First,” Syfa began, “don’t let them provoke you. Goes especially for you, Tyson. Keep it low key. Let them shoot first, that’ll help us if we have to call in our treaties. Second, we won’t budge in this matter and show no weakness. If the skulls get the feeling that we’re afraid they’ll move on to blunt force. We don’t want a war with them, got that?”

The others nodded.

 

Tony, chief of the Spiders, was already informed when the delegation of the Claws showed up in his headquarters. With a resigned smile he waved them in and offered drinks. Because of the impending negotiations the delegated limited it to ice-cooled lemonade. Tony waved to one of his men and sat down with the claws. 

“So,” he said, “what’s this about?”

Syfa shrugged. “Skulls want the Nordring,” she replied.

Tony snorted. “What an arrogance. Kick their butts for us.” Outside the rattle of more engines sounded and Tony looked around nervously. “I never said that, right?” he hissed towards Syfa and got up to greet the newcomers.

It was a mixed group of delegates of different gangs all from around Berlin, who all wanted to know what was going on this time. If it boiled down to a fight between Claws and Skulls almost all other gangs would get pulled into the conflict, even those who weren’t tied through treaties to one of the two parties. These gangs were especially interested in what happened at this meeting since they would need to make their decisions accordingly.

Tony waved at his people to move the tables so that a circle was formed around the place where the Claws were already waiting. Prudently the experienced politician ensured that delegates of hostile gangs didn’t get seated to closely.

Syfa put on an impassive face, but inwardly she had to grin while she watched him. The Spiders knew all too well that their hours were counted as soon as the bigger gangs got down to business. The only reason their little territory wasn’t swallowed up yet was because then there would be one long drawn-out border – which certainly would lead to open war in no time at all. So far no one was interested in another explosion of low town, but it was just a matter of time. When it happened Syfa wanted to be sure that the Claws came out ahead.

Then Gorba the Skull, chief of the Skulls, entered. He was followed by ten more members. So he too had brought a complete racing team and even more, which hinted that he didn’t really come to negotiate. Syfa noticed that there were no women on his team and that all members were apparently chosen for physical strength. The observers around the room noticed these things as well. On some tables there was reluctant or even impressed shaking of heads about this demonstration of brute strength.

Syfa nodded at the newcomers calmly but didn’t get up, a deliberate provocation, which was taken up by the other Claws. It didn’t impress her that much that the Skulls had superiority of numbers. Gorba’s face darkened and in return he sat down at the Claws’ table without invitation. The other Skulls followed suit. A moment a tense silent gripped the whole room, even the observers. In some ways the two chiefs had already declared war. It was just a matter of how it would be fought now.

Syfa and Gorba stared at each other across the table, hostility rising. Gorba had narrowed his eyes to slits while Syfa blinked unabashed. She appeared relaxed compared to her opponent and left it to him to deliver his demands again. She already knew what he wanted anyway and she knew that he knew that she knew. In bringing their complete racing teams they had both made clear from the beginning that they wouldn’t give in on this matter. Now this meeting was reduced to a proclamation on neutral ground, just something for the protocol.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Gorba eventually started after stretching the silence some more. “We want the Luisengasse up to the corner of Nordring.”

Syfa took a sip from her lemonade without averting her eyes from the chief of the Skulls’, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “No dice,” she said finally and put the bottle down with a dull clang.

“That your last word?” Gorba asked menacingly.

“Yes,” Syfa replied calmly. “The Luisengasse was allotted to us five years ago. We’re not giving it up.”

“The area should have been ours!” Gorba bellowed. “The contracts were hammered out without even asking us! We were run over when the borders were drawn again!”

“Then you should have complained five years ago,” Syfa replied, unperturbed.

Next to her Rust couldn’t fight back a wide grin. Five years ago the Skulls had been among the smallest gangs of Berlin and no one had even thought about them when the borders had been rearranged.

Gorba jumped up. “We’ll get what we deserve!” he yelled. “And you filthy dogs won’t stop us!”

Suddenly all quiet manner fell off Syfa. Her hand sprung forward and stopped Tyson who’d jumped up furiously at the last words. “That filthy dog you take back right now!” she hissed.

“I won’t,” Gorba growled. “The Skulls are challenging the claws hereby to duel!”

_Finally he gets to the point_ , Syfa thought. The other Claws nodded towards her. “We accept that challenge,” she said.

For the first time Tony moved in. “Then with the Claws as the challenged party get to chose either the type of competition or its time and place.”

“So, which do you chose?” Gorba asked.

Syfa stared at him hard. Was she imagining things, or had his demeanor suddenly something couching? Was there a trap here? She looked around towards her team mates. Tyson was still fuming with anger, but Jonathan signaled to be careful. Apparently he had scented something as well. She looked over to Dal. He shrugged and nodded towards her. “Go on,” that meant. It wasn’t really a question which option Syfa would chose. The challenged always chose the type of competition, since time and place held little advantages.

It wasn’t a question either what type of duel the claws would chose. After all, they had already picked a team. That the Skulls had brought their complete racing team to negotiate made it obvious that they as well had planned to settle this in a race.

_Something’s wrong here,_ Syfa thought. But she couldn’t interrupt negotiations to discuss matters with her team unhurriedly, that would have been counted as a sign of weakness. And since she had accepted the challenge there was no way back if she didn’t want to lose face and the Luisengasse.

“We chose racing as means of holding,” she said finally, before the silence could grow too deep. “That leaves time and place to you.”

A wide grin appeared on Gorba’s face. Syfa had the horrible feeling she’s just played right into his hands.

“Very well,” the chief of the Skulls said. “The rules say we must not choose a time directly following the challenge. Next Saturday, six o’clock, should fulfill these requirements, right, Tony?”

Tony nodded. “That’s right.” He too seemed to wonder where this would lead to. They all knew the rules. Why was Gorba reciting them? Did he want hedge his bets against something? Six was a rather early time for a race, while a whole week for preparation was pretty long, but there was no reason why Syfa should object.

Gorba was still grinning. “So from date to place then. Here the rules say – what was it again? Oh right, it needs to be neutral.” He grinned at the Claws, as if he expected them to challenge his words.

“We know the rules,” Dal clipped in. “Drop the show and tell us where you wanna ride.”

But Gorba wasn’t to be hastened. “Neutral in this case means that it can’t be in ours, or in your sphere of influence,” he continued to draw out the rules. “Or in the territory of our allies, and it should be located at about equal distance from both of our headquarters, right?”

Syfa swallowed a snotty reply and nodded jerkily. She had a very bad feeling at this. Gorba must have found a place which followed the rules but put the Claws at a huge disadvantage.

“The territory of the Spiders’ should suit that,” said Gorba and looked around their host’s headquarter theatrically. “But I think not,” he finally said. Again that wide grin appeared on his face. “We Skulls have decided that the best – most neutral – place would lie outside of low town. So we’ll race on the Autobahn.”

It took a moment until the Claws hat stomached this. A race on the Autobahn, right in the middle of rush-hour…

“Are you crazy?” Tyson blurted out.

“Scared, kiddo?” asked Britwaj, Gorba’s third chief and leader of the racing team. Silence commenced. An insult like that could only be settled with a duel, normally. Tyson stared at him but he controlled his anger. “We’ll see next Saturday who’s afraid,” he pressed out.

“Of course you can always back down and just give us the Luisengasse,” Gorba replied and grinned condescendingly at Syfa. The Claws directed measuring glances at their young chieftain as well, just as everyone else. Who clamped her fists in helpless fury, but managed to keep her voice level as she answered: “We will not back down.”

What else could she say? She just _couldn’t_ back down in front of everybody, not without risking everything she had worked for, lived for, during the last years.

“So till Saturday, at six,” said Gorba, looking smug.

“Saturday at six,” Syfa repeated firmly. “Where do you want to meet?”

“At the start of the track of course.”

“And where exactly do you want to race?” Jonathan intercepted in a challenging tone. His voice was hard, his face like a wall. Syfa felt that her team-mates hat formed a kind of wall behind her and she was grateful for it. She was risking their lives as well at this. She had to think of her trip just this afternoon. How many times had she just barely escaped an accident? And there she had been alone, no other riders trying to push her over or bring her down, and there had been comparatively few cars on the road… How many times were there horrible accidents at normal races on marked and car-free tracks…

Gorba nodded at one of his men, who produced a map at this. “Here, at this rest stop we start,” Gorba pointed out a place, “onto the Autobahn 114. We ride north to this exit; switch onto A 10, this Autobahn segment leading west, onto the A 111 and back into the city. Exit Holzhauerstraße. Finish’s at this traffic-light. Meeting later at the ruins of Tegel airport.”

Syfa could hardly believe it. The skulls had picked the most important access roads of Berlin. Saturday at six thousands of commuters would be jamming these lines. A race under those circumstances amounted to suicide.

“What about police?” Jonathan asked. “There’s bound to be crashes at this race. What do we do when the cops show?”

“Keep moving,” Gorba replied grinning. “As fast as you can, I’d advice.”

He looked into the transfixed faces of the Claws. “How is it?” he finally said. “Are you in, or would you rather back down? This is no child’s play, you think you’re up to this?”

“Be careful you don’t bite more than you can swallow,” Syfa growled.

“Of course we’re in!” Tyson cried.

Gorba seemed to notice him for the first time and eyed him up for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Better leave your kindergarten at home Saturday, Queen,” he advised Syfa.

Tyson turned scarlet, but he kept his temper. When Gorba saw that none of the Claws would be moved to do something rash, he asked: “So everything’s settled then?”

Syfa nodded and rose. “We meet Saturday, at the rest stop.”

“We’ll be there,” said Gorba. He grinned again as he watched how the Claws filed out silently.

 

“Fucking hell,” Tyson blurted out once they reached their bikes.

“Shut up,” Syfa growled. “We’re not alone here. – Later,” she added. She felt like screaming with rage herself. The Skulls had tricked her. And she had walked right into it.

She put on her black helmet and started her bike. Followed by the other claws she swept through the night. The cold wind cooled her heated mind and cleared her thoughts. This affair would certainly bring trouble. There were enough Claws circling like vultures above her head, just waiting for her to make a mistake. It would have been easier if she had been older, if she were a boy, if she didn’t stand in the shadow of Cluny the Claw who had founded the Claws and let for over twelve years. They’d accuse her of playing straight into Gorba’s hands.

This whole affair was just crying for a challenge.

 

Without a word the claws stopped their motorcycles in front of headquarters and silent they trudged upstairs. Curious eyes followed them, but nobody stopped them, nobody dared ask what had happened. Headquarter was empty besides KC who was playing around with the stereo. Thunderous beats sounded through the room and it took a moment before KC noticed the newcomers. Quickly he turned off the music.

“Go get the rest of the Droma, KC,” Syfa ordered before he could ask anything. “Full assembly.”

She dropped into a chair placed at the head of the table. Her hands reached for the butterfly knife in her pocket. She hoped she wouldn’t need it, but didn’t count on it.

In silence the other Claws hung around. Tyson tampered with the abandoned stereo. Jonathan had rested his head on his hands and stared at nothing; Jacky went to the fridge and handed a round of beer out. No one was meeting the others’ eyes.

They had been tricked, had walked blindly into the trap Gorba had laid out for them. Syfa could feel how the others watched her secretly. At the bottom of the matter it had been her fault. She had done the talking, she should have noticed the trap, had noticed it – and had still walked into it.

“Look, guys,” she started, “if anyone wants to back out of this…” She looked over to her team.

“No way!” Tyson shouted. “We gonna give the Skulls a good kick up the arse!”

Syfa’s smiled at his enthusiasm with restrain, while at the same time wishing there was a way to keep the boy out of this. He was easily the best friend she had, almost a little brother – and he was so young, so inexperienced, what if something happened to him? But there was nothing she could do or say that would stop him from racing. She’d have to break his arm for that, at the least.

“Tyson’s right,” said Derrek finally. “The Skulls are in for a surprise here. They get to ride the same course, after all.”

The other riders nodded in agreement. Dal grinned at her. “You can drop your knife. If one of us wants to challenge you then it’s out on the racetrack.”

“Everyone else can come to me first,” Jonathan said darkly und straightened up. His eyes gleamed dangerously. Syfa nodded to him, but she knew that she couldn’t let him fight her duels. Again there was silence.

At least she had Derrek on her side, which was worth something. Everyone in the gang knew him, because he’d been third chief and team captain back when Cluny had led the gang. But then Syfa had gained the title to never re-award it after making it all the way to the top so understandably he wasn’t exactly her biggest fan.

 

Syfa stared at the clock on the wall. A little after midnight. The door opened and KC returned, whereupon everybody took a seat at the long table. Syfa had the chair at head of the table, on her right sat Jonathan, on the left of the chieftain sat Derrek, the rest of the delegation placed themselves around them. Tyson and Lenya leaned against the wall next to the door. Though they were part of the racing team they had not yet earned a place at the Long Table.

One by one the other seats were filled with nine more Claws, then the Droma was complete. There was Mo, for example, who was responsible for bringing in the protection tax, quiet and dependable, or Kargo, who held connections to every fencer in the area. Neil stared at Syfa with hatred. Last was Doc, the professor, by far the oldest in the room, who had been trusted with the important task of managing the Claws’ finances. He had already held his position under Cluny the Claw, but originally he was from uptown. He was the only one within the room with a proper education.

Doc pushed his glasses up his long nose and winked at Syfa. He had been the one to suggest her as chief, to the surprise of everybody else. Encouraged by his trust Syfa had made her way all the way to the top. A position she might have to defend today once again.

Syfa felt the eyes of the newcomers’ on her and tried not let her nervousness show as she reported what had happened this evening. When she finished, Doc’s face showed great concern, Mo frowned angrily. Most of the others within the room appeared to be just as irritated about the way Gorba had given her the runaround. Neil looked around, assuring himself of his friends’ support, and then grinned at Syfa menacingly.

“I’d say you blew it, Queen,” he finally spoke, standing up. “You’ve been had by Gorba like some country wench.”

“He’s had us all,” Jonathan interjected. “None of us saw this coming.”

“Then you’re just as half-assed,” Jeff hissed, a sidekick of Neil’s. Syfa had known for a long time that the two of them wanted to displace her and Jonathan.

“So you think you could have done better, Neil?” she asked, getting to her feet as well.

“Certainly,” Neil replied with a dangerous grin and closed in on her. “Every idiot could do better than you. And everyone’s gonna see that now.” He pulled a knife from his belt. “You’re a cur, and you’ll take stick now like the filthy dog you are! Cluny’s little lap-doggy! You charmed his pants off, and everyone else’s as well. You’re gutless; just a scammer, you got your post by fraud. You’re just a weak little girl, unworthy of leading the Claws! I will show you!”

Syfa let her own knife snap open, icy-cool. She had known all the time it would come to this. “You will pay for this, you dastard swine,” she hissed hatefully.

Without warning Neil jabbed at her. Syfa dived away underneath his arm and attacked herself, but she missed him as well, then she caught a slap to the face from the edge of Neil’s hand. Syfa lunged at him again and a red mark appeared on his upper arm; in return Neil hammered a fist into her stomach causing her to stumble backwards gasping for air. Neil pressed on and tried to knock the knife out of her hand, but she drove her head into his chest.

Syfa used her experience from dozens of fights like this to keep Neil at bay, always lurking, always waiting for a chance never dropping her own guard. But Neil was a street fighter himself, he too had made it far in the ranks of the Claws’, was cunning and knew all the tricks in the book. He had a slight plus in size and weight, but Syfa was too fast for him to really press that advantage.

Both inflicted several short cuts upon each other, before Neil managed to slice open Syfas right forearm, causing her to drop her knife with a yelp. She was facing him unarmed now, but that didn’t mean the fight was over yet. Gritting her teeth she hurled herself at him, and before he could react she had thrown him over one hip to the ground. When he tried to catch his fall he, too, lost his knife. As Syfa tried to stop him from rising again he pulled her feet away from under her and she found herself lying on the ground next to him. A second later they were wallowing in the dust.

Neil reached for her neck and choked her, but she brought up her knee and kicked him in the crotch. When he let got she pressed her thumb into his eye. Blind with tears and her blood he yanked his hand upwards and caught her chin full force so that she saw nothing but lightning for a moment. Neil scrambled to his feet and before Syfa could rise as well he gave her a kick into the side, pressing the air out of her lungs again. Wheezing, Syfa rolled around and felt cold steel on the ground. She grabbed the knife and blocked another kick, then got up again. Neil flung himself at her anew, but again Syfa pushed her hip between his legs and threw him to the ground. This time she managed to sit at his back before he could defend himself. One knee she pressed between his shoulders, with one hand she grabbed his hair and pulled his head backwards. With the other hand she held the knife to his throat. 

“Are you giving up?”

Silence. Only after a moment Neil gasped. “Yeah, I give up.”

Syfa didn’t let go yet. “Will you take back your words?” she asked. There was a short pause again and Syfa pulled at his hair more fiercely. Either Neil revoked his words or Syfa would have to cut his throat to restore her honor. And she would do it. Wouldn’t be the first time either.

“I take back what I said,” Neil finally pressed out. “You _are_ worthy of leading the Claws.”

Empty words, Syfa knew. He didn’t mean a single one of them. But for now it was good enough. She let go of him and let her gaze wander the room, still breathless.

“Is there anyone else here doubting that?” she asked loudly. Neil got back onto his feet and stared at her, wrath, but also the shadow of acknowledgement in his eyes. He retreated. When no one else moved, Syfa snapped her blade shut, and then picked up Neil’s, offering it to him.

“Take it,” she said. “You might need it against the Skulls. At times like these we can’t afford to fight each other.”

Neil hesitated for a second, but he accepted the weapon. Others nodded in approval, satisfied with the way she had solved this.

“Then let us debate how we proceed from here,” said Jonathan as the room went quiet again.


	4. "Shopping"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shopping, low-town-style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...

 

“Shopping”

 

When Syfa finally rode home, the sun was up high above the tenements of Berlin. Her mother was already at work, which was just fine with Syfa. She didn’t feel like talking to Marielle yet. Syfa could be quite unforgiving; besides, she already knew what a fuss her mother would make when she saw the long cut on Syfa’s forearm and the new bruises. She had allowed Doc to apply something which passed as wound-dressing in low town and that would have to do. She really didn’t feel like putting up with her mother’s worried face. If things went her way she would be gone again when Marielle returned from work.

Before Syfa finally went to bed she tended to her injuries, rinsed the smaller cuts at the bathroom and applied an ointment. Luckily none besides the one in her forearm were deep. They would heal fast and possibly even without scarring too much. A little after seven Syfa went to bed.

 

When Syfa woke again hours later, she felt as if she’d been rolled over by a truck. Every bone ached as her muscles protested painfully, and she got up stretching to unclench her stiff limbs.

“Somehow this just isn’t my week,” she grumbled softly as she got out of her sleeping-shirt. The long gush in her arm burned when the fabric ran over it and the dressing was soaked in blood.

Syfa went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess and there was a bluish-purple swelling right underneath her eye where Neil had hit her. She couldn’t do much about that, but the hair bothered her. Syfa rarely sported the same hair color for more than a few weeks. The style itself bored her too. During the last years she had just let her hair grow, wearing it usually in a pony tail, but now she felt like something different. She looked up at the clock above the door and decided she still had time for a few changes before her mother came back.

She turned up the hot water and filled the tub, adding a generous amount of Marielles bath salt into it. If anyone else within the building wanted to take a shower now, it would be a cold one. With a soft sigh Syfa slid into the bathtub, taking care that her injured arm didn’t meet the soap water. She let her thoughts wander, trying not to think of the race against the Skulls next week, and ended up at her mother’s call after a moment. Anger boiled up inside her. _“Isn’t that what you all are, runaway street-kids?”_

How dare Marielle? The Claws were no runaways, and most certainly no street- _kids_ , but one of the most powerful gangs of Berlin. If anyone else had dared speak those words Syfa would have challenged them to fight about it just like Neil last night. Of course she couldn’t do that with Marielle. But she too would have to apologize before Syfa would talk to her again.

 

Just as the Skulls would have to apologize. They were going to regret their arrogance soon enough, they had to ride the same course after all…

And with that her thoughts did reach the race. If she was quite honest with herself she was scared. A race against the Skulls was dangerous enough under normal circumstances. Gorba’s riders tried to win not so much by way of speed but by bringing down other riders. There had been enough deaths even at regular races. This time there would be thousands of angry drivers and certainly sooner or later the police. Syfa had to think of Tyson again. Dal hat suggested to have him make the hare, who would have to drive ahead setting the speed or distracting the opponents, while other riders waited for a good opportunity. The hare was always first to be taken out by the other team, usually it was a young, inexperienced rider needing to prove himself – just as Tyson.

That was her greatest fear that something might happen to the boy. He was just fifteen. And it had been her decision to let him go. It would be her fault, if…

Syfa refused to finish that thought. Nothing like that would happen. It mustn’t happen.

 

A little over an hour later Syfa grinned at her mirror-image, satisfied. It was barely recognizable. Her hair had taken a more or less even hazel hue which was close to her natural color. It was a lot shorter too, only reaching her chin and hanging into her face messily. Only the tips of the rather uneven cut were dyed in a bright lime-green. She had painted her nails in the same color.

 

Finally Syfa left for headquarters. As chief she had to show up there regularly, even if there wasn’t anything specifically to be done, like tonight. There was neither a race nor an assembly scheduled; still it didn’t take long before the whole team had gathered. They sat in the back of the bar, drank beer or Gomba and pretended that everything was in order and there were nothing to worry about. They were surrounded by curious Claws, since naturally the news of the coming race had gotten around. All of low town buzzed like an angry bee hive. At the short border, where the territories of the Claws’ and the Skulls’ met along the Luisengasse, there had already been smaller skirmishes between excited gang members.

It didn’t surprise Syfa when a few Crows showed up at headquarters. Most likely they had been sent to gauge their reaction. Not much later observers from other gangs showed up.

For a while Syfa chatted with the Crows, who were allies of the Claws’ after all. Syfa herself had negotiated the treaty, thus succeeding in something Cluny had never achieved. It had been her first important triumph as young chief and the end of long lasting vendetta.

After some time, the eight riders moved over to a near-by garage where Rust was working on his bike, which had been damaged at his crash two nights ago. In low town it was often difficult to find the necessary replacement parts for a repair. Many things could only be bought from fencers at expensive pricing – the other option was to steal whatever was needed. Rust would have to get at least some of the parts he needed that way.

While he wrenched on his bike, cursing softly now and then, the other riders sat around, laughing and joking. Not even in front of each other did they want to admit that they felt uneasy at the thought of the upcoming race.

“So how’s it coming along?” Syfa asked after a while.

Rust looked up darkly. “At least on cylinder is junk,” he replied, “and there’s something off with the exhaust too.”

“Get a list of what you need,” Jonathan said. “If you want to, we can move out tonight yet.”

“I’d tag along there,” Dal said. There was no one better than Jonathan when it came to picking locks. The other drivers nodded with interest as well. One could never have enough spare parts. Syfa fished a pen and a piece of paper out of her pocket. She and Tyson were the only ones present who could write.

A little later the group moved out towards uptown, to the inner city where the better people lived and worked – at least those better people who didn’t actually live outside of Berlin.

Rust was sitting behind Dal on his Harley and grumbled softly to himself. The repair didn’t proceed the way he had hoped it would.

It didn’t take the group long to leave low town, via alleys where the street-lamps didn’t work properly and through back-yards where the rats cavorted. No one saw them. Gangers who didn’t want to be seen could be as invisible as thoughts. And Syfa didn’t appreciated being seen, especially not on a shopping trip. A wanted poster of her was hanging in every police station – though the picture probably didn’t look like her at all at the moment – together with posters of Jonathan, the chief of the Crows’ and since a while Gorba as well. Tony’s poster could be found at some stations as well. All gangs were prohibited, and their chiefs wanted, but of course nobody really cared. The people of low town, even those who made their money in honest ways, were long used to meeting wanted criminals on their way to work, and there were far more and far worse than just the chiefs of the gangs.

Syfa and her friends stopped in a dark corner near the heart of Berlin. Even here there were deserted backyards where no one dared to go at night, though it were hardly two hundred yards to Berlin’s famous Kurfürstendamm, which was blazing with light even at this late hour. There the better people of the city cavorted on this Saturday night to eat and shop. But to this place nobody came. A garage door was decorated with colorful graffiti and a window was bolted with wooden bars. Junk littered the yard, a few empty spray cans, an empty bucket of paint, an old folding chair and an ancient motorcycle, rusted so badly it looked like it would fall apart at the slightest touch.

“Scap metl colection point” was written about a door between the blocked windows, an R, an A, and an L had fallen down. Syfa grinned when she read the words and pointed it out to Tyson. The building was from a time before the war and this entrance hadn’t been used in years as it looked. On the other side, towards Ku’damm, a sign read: “Car emporium Friedrich Kinzig– sale and service.”

“Fits,” Tyson muttered and grinned as well.

“What does?” the others asked confused and Syfa read it for them, translating it into slang. Muted laughter sounded through the darkness, and then they turned to the door. Heavy locks and several bars secured it, but Jonathan wasn’t impressed. Within a few minutes he had the door open without even making a sound. Before the alarm could go off he had cut the relevant wires.

Syfa pulled out a flash light and let the cone of light wander through a deserted workshop. A Mercedes stood at one wall, the hood open, and there were other cars and two motorcycles as well, waiting in the dark to be repaired. There may have been times when people had worked day and night in Berlin, but since the oil fields at the North Sea were exhausted power had become quite expensive. As a result machine work had decreased and working times had been shortened. Human workers were cheaper than machines these days but they needed light to see.

The Claws fanned out and soon found the shop in front of the workshop. The light of a street lamp on Ku’damm outside came in through the shutters and security guards and fell on shelves packed with all kinds of equipment for motorized vehicles. Upholstery in colorful patterns, storage boxes to put on motorcycles, rubber mats, fluffy covers for steering wheels, handy little tool kits, protection gear, warning triangles, car stereos, helmets, sun shields, street maps – in short everything a driver or a rider might need or want. The Claws took the time to examine the offered goods, take them from the shelves and laugh about them. Their soft voices sounded loud through the darkness.

“I’d really like to know who can afford this crap.”

“Have you seen those prices?...”

“They need it, of all people…”

“Hey, look at that!”

“A pink helmet, how about it, Queen?”

“Don’t even think about it!”

“Cone one, there’s even one what got little flowers on it! Wouldn’t that look great with your new hair color, kiwi?”

“Shut up, Dal!”

While the others poked around the showroom, Jonathan tampered a little with the counter. It didn’t take long for him to break into the cash register.

“Hey, guys, get over here!” he hissed and a moment later the Claws had gathered around him.

Dal whistled softly. “Thought they empty the cash box every night at places like this,” he muttered.

“Guess not,” Rust said. “What do you think, how much is it?”

“A few hundred Mark at least,” Syfa replied. She tried not to think about how long her mother had to labor at the factory to make this kind of money. Not that she really had to. Syfa was quite able to support them both, but Marielle had different ideas about that.

“We should see if they don’t got a safe here as well,” Tyson suggested. His eyes gleamed at the thought.

Syfa thought about it. “You and Jonathan, get to it,” she said. “The rest of us needs to find out if they got something more useful than _floral_ helmets.”

 

It didn’t take long to find all the spare parts Rust needed and then some, because it didn’t pay to bring a bag and only fill it half. Not that they had brought a bag, but they helped themselves at the storage boxes from the showroom and there were a lot of those. Spare parts were stored in a back room next to the workshop. It smelled of oil and grease and other chemicals there, but that didn’t bother the riders, they were used to that from their own bikes. Since they were there anyway they sacked several canister of fuel as well, which was mostly made from seed oils these days, mixed with the very last rest of petroleum from sites deep underneath the Pacific.

 

Jonathan at the main office of the dealership had less luck. The safe he had found quickly enough, since the owners had hardly bothered to hide it, but other problems arose. Jonathan was great with lock picks. He could open a lock with three bars blindfolded in less than a minute, just feeling his way around. With electrical systems things were more complicated. Here there was no feeling to go by, just a lot of wires and a keypad with ten numbers, which he had already removed since it didn’t help him. Tyson sat at the desk and watched.

“What are you doing there anyway?” he asked after Jonathan had stared at the wires for a while.

“I am thinking,” Jonathan replied, “don’t interrupt me.”

“Doesn’t happen that often, does it?” Tyson asked and wished the next second he had just kept his mouth shut. Commentaries like this were the reason he got in troubles all the time. This was Jonathan, after all, second chief.

“Yeah right,” Jonathan replied. “So stay quiet. Could get dangerous if you distract me.”

“Worried you gonna melt a think-wire, right?” Tyson slipped before he could catch himself. This was not one of his chums of the street, he reminded himself again, nor Syfa, whom he knew since he had outgrown his swaddling clothes.

It had been Syfa who had introduced him with the claws when he had been only twelve. Most kids of that age in low town could only dream of ever entering a gang. But he and Syfa had grown up at the same street, pretty much in the same building. They had been on the same school, and though Tyson was three years younger, Syfa had spent the afternoons at his place, since her mother had been working at the factory. They had grown up together, played together, got in and out of trouble together, and even today, where Syfa was chief of the Claws, they were good friends. Tyson was quite proud of this because he knew that Syfa put more trust in him than in anyone else on the gang.

Jonathan just laughed. Tyson relaxed a little and watched as his second chief ran a finger over the different wires, which all looked the same to Tyson but seemed to mean something to Jonathan.

“This one goes to the alarm,” he muttered softly. “But this one might as well… Might have a security circuit, bloody thing…”

 

Jonathan was still working on the vault when the other Claws showed up, packed with their haul.

“How’s it going?” Syfa asked.

“Get everything outside and get ready to move,” Jonathan replied. “This alarm’s a tricky bitch. It’s probably gonna go off once I start cutting wires. I should get it open though.”

Derrek nodded. “So we’ll have about five minutes to sack the loot before the cops show up.”

Dal nodded. “Let’s get started then, guys. Here, Tyson, make yourself useful and take that.” He dumped his load of spare parts on the boy and let him haul it to the bikes, while he himself only carried a flash-light.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Syfa hissed at Dal, but Tyson didn’t complain. As the youngest on the team he had to expect being given the dirty work.

It didn’t take them long to secure everything at their bikes and gather again in the office, armed with plastic bag from the showroom.

“Ready?” Jonathan asked, and cut a few wires. The door of the safe opened with a soft hiss, but there was no other sound. Instead, a light began to blink at the desktop where Tyson was seated.

“Guys, look at the moola,” Rust muttered.

“Don’t babble,” Syfa scolded and began to fill a bag with bills. “Hurry up. We don’t know how much time we’ve got.”

While the others bagged the money, Lyn looked around the office. Windows looked onto the wide avenue of Kurfürstendamm.

“You know, it would be bloody rude of us to if we don’t even leave them a note,” he said, grinning.

His twin Kay understood at once. “I’ve seen spray cans at the workshop, Queen. It’ll only take a minute.”

“All right,” Syfa replied. “But be quick.”

The twins vanished and a moment later the other Claws followed them, laden with bags of money. Kay and Lyn were just spraying the sign of the claws huge and well visible on the inside of the garage door. Tyson grabbed a can as well and went back into the office where he decorated the windows with bright green graffiti – quite similar to Syfa’s new hair color. Dal and Jonathan emptied a few cans over the black Mercedes, not without taking the star first. Syfa and Lenya took on the showroom, spilled paint and put the sign of the Claws onto the walls as well. Shelves were knocked over, glasses broken, everything they didn’t take the Claws cast onto the floor.

Within a few minutes the racket was over and the Claws vanished in the night again. Once they heard police sirens in a distance, but they didn’t see anything.

Back at headquarters the loot was split up. Jonathan got a bonus, since he had opened all the locks, and a chunk of money went to the official cash box. Doc very carefully took note of every Pfennig going in and out. But even after dividing the rest by nine there was still a nice number left for everyone.

Dal and Syfa celebrated the successful raid at the bar, where the others followed them soon. Only Jonathan pried Malina out from behind the counter and vanished with her.

 

Malina smiled happily. Jonathan held her hand while he let the way to the old watchtower. They climbed up the fire escape and onto the turret, and he told her about the raid. Malina listened with a mixture of fascination and horror – a lot fascination and a little bit of horror – and she felt stupid even for that. After all, she was in low town now and almost a gang member too. Maybe, one day, she would actually be with him on one of these raids.

She shook her head at herself and smiled wryly. Malina Müller, sweet little “Sugar,” who felt bold and daring when she tampered with the radio until it played music from low town, a full member of the Claws?

Her parents would kill her, if they ever found out, and the Queen certainly wouldn’t allow it anyway.

But Malina couldn’t deny that she liked the idea.  

She cuddled up to Jonathan, and wondered what was necessary to become a full member of the Claws. She had very little to offer them, no money, no connections, no special abilities. She was certainly no fighter, and darning socks probably wasn’t a skill the Claws considered useful.

Jonathan’s hands ran over her hair, her face, played with her fingers, and distracted her from her musing. Maybe she was asking too much. Here she was, free to go and do as she pleased, yet with a safe place to retreat to and the basic protection of a pretty influential gang. And, most importantly, in the arms of a boy she was quickly falling in love with.

She looked up to Jonathan’s profile, dark against the starry sky above Berlin and smiled happily. No, she couldn’t really ask for more.

The night was warm, but there was a cold breeze blowing over the rooftops. When Malina shivered, Jonathan put both his arms around her and pulled her onto his lap. Then he kissed her. For a second Malina stiffened, surprised how quickly things between them were moving, but then she kissed him back. Suddenly he whispered in heavily accented German. “I love you.”

Malina stared at him. She had never heard him speak any other language than slang, if that mush could even be counted as a language. “I love you too,” she replied, speaking German as well. Jonathan smiled and kissed her again.

 

(‖)

 

Syfa was pretty tanked up when she finally retreated to sleep at the crack of dawn. There was an attic above the bar, where among other things an old couch and a few discarded pieces of furniture stood around. Syfa had slept there before, at all times of day. In one of the beat-up closets she kept some clothes, and this was the place where she went to change before and after parties. 

Marielle wasn't going to see her for a while, if things went her way.

 

(‖)

 


	5. An Undesired Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Syfa groaned. “Great. Just great!”

An Undesired Visitor

 

Even on Sundays Marielle woke up early, mostly by habit. As on every other day she rose, got dressed and made breakfast, taking her time at it. Eventually she got up again and opened the door to Syfa’s room. With a disappointed sigh she looked around. The chaos on the other side was just as untouched as it had been last night. So her daughter had still not come home. Nervously, Marielle stared at the clock in the hallway. Sunday was the only day of the week where she did not have to work, and normally Syfa was home then as well. But apparently she still hadn’t forgiven Marielle.

Lost in dark thoughts Marielle sat down with a second cup of coffee. Usually Syfa would keep her company at that, and Marielle would listen with half-hidden terror to the newest stories from headquarters. Sometimes Syfa would fall asleep on the kitchen table or on the sofa at the tiny living room, but the important point was that she was there. Marielle hated being alone, and in low town you were alone constantly, sometimes even while standing in the middle of a crowd.

When the clock struck nine o‘clock she couldn’t bear it anymore.

 

(‖)

 

Something shrill and piercing rang like an alarm clock and Syfa woke up groaning. It took a while until she realized what had woken her, and for a moment she debated just turning around and going back to sleep. Whoever that might be could call again later. But the ringing didn’t stop, so she sat up and began looking for her mobile phone. Sunlight was piercing her eyes. Broad daylight.

“If that’s Jonathan, he’s in for something,” she muttered to herself and rubbed her eyes. No one else would dare calling her at this time of day, unless there was an emergency. The phone was still ringing. “Where the hell did the thing go?” Syfa grumbled, fishing for her jacket which had fallen to the ground, to search the pockets. By now she was pretty much awake and in a very bad temper. “What?” she hissed, when she finally found the phone.

“Sifaril – it’s me, Marielle. I – I just wanted to say – I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry. About Friday.”

Syfa let herself fall back without giving an answer, glaring at no one.

“Sifaril, please…” Marielle sounded uncertain. “I’m sorry,” she repeated more slowly. “I’ll take back what I said about the Claws.”

“All right,” Syfa finally said. “Apology accepted.”

Marielle sighed relieved. “Please, come home.”

Syfa played with the zipper of her jacket and tried to think. Her head throbbed and her eyes fell onto a clock. “O crap, do you have any idea what time it is?” she blurted out.

“A little after nine,” Marielle replied. “Please…”

“And there you go waking me up?” Syfa cut her off. She sighed. “Yeah, I’ll come over, damn it. Gonna be a moment though.”

“Thank you,” said Marielle.

“See you in a mo,” Syfa replied and hung up. Afterwards she sank back onto the couch. Her head was hurting like crazy and she was feeling rather ill. _Shouldn’t have had that fourth Gomba,_ she thought _._ She hoped that no one of the gang would see her in this state, but she was alone. Nobody else was awake at this ungodly hour.

 

(‖)

 

At home Marielle could hardly wait for her. She started on the daily chores – washing, cleaning, everything that piled up over the week – but she didn’t get far. Over and over she looked up to the clock.

A little before ten she finally heard how a motorcycle entered the yard and was turned off, a moment later heavy steps sounded on the stairs. It sounded like Syfa had not slept long this night.

Syfa felt a little guilty when she saw the expression of endless relief on her mother’s face, who was waiting in the door for her.

She forced herself to move up the final steps with a little more vigor. Marielle was always worrying way more about her than Syfa did– and yet she didn’t even know half of what happened in low town. Sifaril tolerated that her mother pulled her into a tight hug and answered the embrace. There was no point of going on sulking. At least Marielle had apologized.

After a moment Marielle let go of her and muttered: “Come in, dear.”

Syfa got rid of her boots but refrained from taking of her jacket. In the hallway and the living room, where Marielle was waiting for her, the air was rather crisp and the curtains moved in a slight breeze that came in through the open window, but the actual reason was that Syfa wanted to hide the cut on her forearm.

Marielle watched her. “Interesting color,” she mentioned, smiling faintly, and ran a finger through Syfa’s hair. Once she noticed her daughter’s by now purple-blue cheek, the smile on faded from her face and she asked: “What’s that?”

“Just a bruise,” Syfa replied reluctantly and tried to free herself.

“Let me see that,” Marielle said and turned Sifaril’s head with gentle force so the light from the window fell right onto her face. Syfa blinked as the sun blinded her and tried not to groan.

“Did you cool the swelling?” Marielle asked and when Syfa nodded she added: “How did that happen?”

“Friday night,” Syfa gave back. “Well – Saturday morning. It was after midnight.”

“And the how?”

“Neil and I had a little disagreement,” Syfa replied, aiming for a nonchalant tone.

Marielle suppressed a sigh and pulled her into a hug. Syfa couldn’t stop herself from wincing when her mother touched the wound on her forearm. For a moment she hoped Marielle hadn’t noticed, but then Marielle detached herself and said in a rough voice: “Please, take of your jacket, Sifaril.”

Hesitating Syfa followed the request and allowed Marielle to examine the cut in her arm and the contusions on her upper body. “And what would have been the reason behind your little disagreement,” Marielle asked. The question sounded casual, but a soft shaking of her hands betrayed the strain on her as she opened the scanty bandage Syfa had put on it.

Aforesaid was hardly listening. She felt dizzy and her head was spinning with white and grey specks dancing in front of her eyes. “Can I sit down,” she asked hoarsely.

Marielle looked up into the waxen face of her daughter. “Yes, of course.”

She guided Syfa to the couch, where she just dropped. “How long did you sleep tonight?” Marielle asked.

Syfa rubbed her temples. “Till you woke me up,” she gave back and couldn’t stifle a yawn. “Three, four hours maybe.”

Marielle shook her head. “That cut needed stitching,” she said. “Wait here, I’ll get dressing material.”

 

While Marielle took care of the rather nasty cut, Syfa asked: “What was your week like then?”

“The usual,” her mother replied. “Nothing special except for Mrs. Becker.” She finished a bandage and asked: “Actually, who was the girl you send? And thanks, by the way.”

“Malina,” Sifaril answered. “She’s new in the area, from Marienfelde. Runaway from a marriage, far as I know.” She grinned. “Jonathan’s all crazy about her.”

Marielle felt a sudden sympathy with Malina though they had only seen each other in passing. Marielle had run from home as well when her parents had planned to marry her away. She had only been seventeen then.

Suddenly she remembered something. “Will you tell me what happened on Thursday? Mo mentioned something at the trolley.”

Syfa sniffed. “Bet there’s gonna be trouble about that,” she complained. “Though…” She paused before she answered: “There was a race on Thursday. I won.”

“So?” Marielle knew that those races where nothing unusual at low town. Sometimes the track ran right around their house. Neither was it unusual that Syfa won.

Syfa hesitated again. “Do you know the old bridge?” she asked. “The one with the gap in the middle?”

Marielle nodded.

“Well… I jumped it,” Syfa said, not without pride.

Marielle tried very hard not to imagine how her daughter sped along ill-lit streets, surrounded by other youths whose only concern was winning, never more than a breath away from a deathly accident. And she tried not to imagine how Syfa, in the darkness too, chanced a leap that bordered on suicide even in broad daylight.

“Why?” she asked voiceless, but actually she wanted to scream. Why did it have to be motorcycles? Why did it have to be Sifaril? Why couldn’t Cluny chose someone else? Why her daughter?

“Queen” they called her. She was said to be a good chief. She was said to be brilliant at negotiating treaties with other gangs. She was said to be the best rider of her team. Workers coming from other areas of low town to the territory of the Claws said how nice it was here compared to the cruel reign other gangs held. The protection taxes for example were lower here than in most other areas, and if paid meant that there was nothing else to worry about. But Marielle didn’t care about any of that when she saw her daughter like this.

All Marielle noticed were the cuts and bruises and contusions her daughter brought home over and over again; a child who was trying to steer the fate of a whole city. A child she sometimes hardly recognized. Her child.

Sifaril, Syfa, Queen – she had once been a good student. She had once dreamed about leaving low town forever. Until Cluny had came. Today she dreamed about ruling low town. Marielle silently cursed the day that Sifaril had met Cluny, back when she had been a child who believed the gangs where just part of a wonderful adventure. Sifaril had been fascinated by the charismatic man and the life he had offered her. And Marielle herself had been impressed. A while she had actually believed that everything might get well somehow, after Sifaril had gotten the measles and Cluny had provided them with the vitally important medicines. But her daughter had delved deeper and deeper into the secrets of low town, distancing herself further and further from the life Marielle had planned for her. And Marielle, working all day long, hadn’t noticed until it had been too late.

She still blamed herself that she hadn’t tried to stop her anyway, that she hadn’t been more careful, that she hadn’t kept Cluny away from her darling. How could she allow that Sifaril went with him?

Syfa didn’t answer her mother’s question, instead simply stared down at her arm.

Marielle was well-versed in dressing wounds, had gathered a lot of experience on the matter, but now she wrinkled her forehead looking rather concerned. “You should have come to me right away with that,” she sighed. “That is going to leave a nasty scar.”

“Paid Neil back in spades for it,” Sifaril returned.

Marielle just sighed at that. “Would you like to drink something?” she asked. “There is coffee left.”

Syfa thought about it. Caffeine was probably not the best choice considering the head she was having. “Would you get me a glass of those painkillers?” she asked.

Marielle looked worried. “You’ve been drunk again, haven’t you?”

“Didn’t sleep enough, that’s all,” Syfa claimed, and couldn’t resist adding: “And that’s your fault.” She didn’t say anything about Gomba, but her mother didn’t really seem to believe her anyway.

“I’m glad I woke you,” Marielle stated and got up to go to the kitchen. She really was glad.

Syfa didn’t say anything. She hated it when Marielle was like this, all worried and caring. It was really hard to be mad at her then.

It didn’t take long before Marielle handed her daughter a glass fizzing with the medicine. She chugged it down and then pulled up her feet, curling up on the couch. For a while she watched her mother clean up the little flat, and they talked a little, but soon Syfa’s eyes fell shut. She was sleeping hard while Marielle continued with the chores.

She woke Sifaril for a late lunch, noodles and sauce, cheap and quick. Marielle had cooked enough for the week ahead with the hope that Sifaril might come home and help herself. After lunch Syfa stepped under the shower, afterwards only dressing in an ancient sweat suit of Marielle’s, which had been red once. At the thought of what Jonathan would say if he could see her like that she had to grimace. Her dirty clothes she handed her mother for laundry.

They hung the things which Marielle had washed during the morning up in the attic. It was hard work to carry the wet clothes up all those stairs, but Marielle rather enjoyed it. It was nice to use her hands for something different but the ever repeated motion of the assembly line. Sifaril entertained them both with anecdotes of the less violent kind from headquarters, and with a laugh the work was done all the easier.

 

They had just returned to the flat when the doorbell rang.

“You expecting anyone?” Syfa asked surprised. Of the Claws only Jonathan, Mo and Dal knew where she lived. All three knew better than to show up here on a Sunday.

“Whom would I be expecting?” Marielle replied.

“I don’t know,” Syfa said and grinned. “Maybe some lover I don’t know about?”

Marielle laughed and went to open the door. “If yes then it’s one I don’t know about either.” The bell rang again. “Coming!”

It was indeed a man waiting on the other side, about Marielle’s age. His hair was dark but his eyes were bright blue and he looked nervous. He was wearing Jeans as most workers did, but with a white button-down shirt with short sleeves, the kind you rarely saw at low town. His shoes were artless and cut inconspicuously, but made of shiny black leather and certainly more expensive than anything a common worker could afford. The picture didn’t add up.

When Marielle opened the door he looked her over carefully as if he was trying to recognize something in her. Finally a smile appeared on his face which showed both nervousness and relief. He seemed to be hoping for a reaction from Marielle.

“Good evening,” he said after a moment. “I’m Phillip. Do you remember me, Marielle?”

He extended a hand and Marielle shook it as if dreaming. “This is impossible,” she finally whispered.

“You all right, mother?” Syfa asked from the hallway.

Marielle suddenly looked extremely shaken and confused. Still she said: “Please, come in,” and stepped aside, so the stranger could enter.

Syfa moved forward, blocking the way to the living room by doing so. “Who is that, mother?” she asked.

Marielle blinked as if she just now remembered Syfa’s presence.

“This is Phillip – an old friend of mine.”

“What are you doing here?” Syfa asked, turning towards the stranger wary with cold blue eyes.

Phillip answered her scrutinizing gaze with calm interest. His eyes wandered from her naked feet over the faded red sweat suit, further to the bandage on her arm which poked out from under the sleeve, on to her face with the swollen cheekbone which evaporated hostility and up to her colored hair. His expression remained invariable friendly and calm.

“This is Sifaril, Phillip, my daughter,” Marielle said not without a hint of pride, before he replied anything. “If you would, Sifaril.”

Finally Syfa stepped aside and Marielle ushered the stranger into the living room where she offered him a seat. She took the chair herself, Phillip placing himself on the couch facing her.

Syfa perched herself close to the door on the floor. Her pose betrayed her tension; she was ready to jump in at once should anything happen she didn’t like.

“Where are you from?” she asked Phil, suddenly falling into the slang of low town. “From uptown?”

She ignored the displeased expression of her mother.

Phillip blinked confused, but then he did reply in the same lingo: “From outside of Berlin. From the march of Brandenburg, to be precise.”

“So how do you know my mother?”

Phillip grinned. “Is this going to be some kind of interrogation?” he asked.

Syfa thought about it and didn’t give an answer. People from out of town spoke slang like it was an actual language with rules and grammar and that kind of stuff, and they were never up to date to all the phrases. This guy was almost too well-versed, but he did have the characteristic too-accurate pronunciation of someone who knew where all the words came from and how they were supposed to sound in their own languages.

“Please, Sifaril, do behave yourself,” Marielle chimed in, severe, but she couldn’t hide her concern. When she noticed Syfa’s waiting expression, she said: “Phillip and I met back when we were both children. We…” She was searching for the right words, while at the same time begging Phillip not to say anything. “We became friends,” she finally said. “Actually a little more than that… we even wanted to marry. But our parents were against that union. It was, they said, undue.”

“Especially my father,” Phillip added.

Marielle gave a pained smile. “It wasn’t like my parents were any better. I was engaged to another man when I was seventeen – you know the end of it, Sifaril. We lost track of each other.”

Syfa nodded. The man Marielle was supposed to marry had been twice her age. She had run, had somehow muddled through and finally found work at one of the factories. And eventually Sifaril had been born. Marielle claimed she didn’t know who her father was. However, that her mother had once loved another man before she had been supposed to marry Syfa heard for the first time.

“Why did you come here, Sir?”

“You can say Phillip to me,” he replied, before adding: “My parents found a – better match for me as well, and when I was twenty-two I married a princess of my standing. She died a year ago.” His voice took a strange uninflected tone at these last words. For a second he was silent, but he did continue: “I didn’t want to… I decided to look for Marielle. It wasn’t really hard to get this address.”

“Yeah, cause it’s in the phone book,” Syfa muttered. “What’s your last name, Phillip?”

She didn’t miss how Marielle gasped for air at this question.

“Phillip the second von Braunschweig and Brandenburg,” he replied. “My father is Friedrich von Braunschweig – I would be guessing you have heard of him.”

Syfa froze. “Friedrich von Braunschweig… Holy shit. You’re the son of the police governor?”

Phillip nodded curtly.

Syfa groaned. “Great. Just great!” Her right hand automatically pulled the left sleeve over the scars on the back of her hand. The whole situation just kept getting more complicated. Now she was lumbered with the police as well and still had the Skulls to worry about. So that was why Phillip had looked so familiar. His father was on the news now and then when the _“issue of gangs in Berlin”_ or elsewhere was discussed.

Her hand moved to her pocket fumbling for the butterfly-knife she always carried around. She might need the weapon soon enough. Suddenly she was infinitely grateful that she had just gotten rid of her zebra-mane. Even some ganger who knew her well had hardly recognized her on first sight.

“Did you take the car?” Marielle changed the topic.

Phillip nodded. “I found a parking spot right at the door.”

Marielle made a face. “Let’s hope it’s still there.” She looked at her daughter. “Sifaril, would you…”

Syfa sighed. She knew what her mother was getting at: an indentation which would ensure that no petty thief who didn’t want beef with the Claws would lay hands on the car. “All right,” she grumbled. “How much do you value the car’s finish?”

Phillip furrowed his forehead. “I don’t think I understand.”

“I got to mark the car or it’ll be gone in a few hours,” Sifaril explained. “So I’ll need to key the car.”

“Can’t you do it someplace unobtrusive?” Phillip asked.

“Then where would be the point?” Syfa replied, exasperated.

Phillip shrugged. “In that case I guess I value the finish less than the car itself.”

“Smart thinking,” Syfa gave back ironically and left.

 

It wasn’t very hard to find Phillip’s car. No one else in low town drove Mercedes. Surprisingly even the star was still there. Syfa was almost sorry to damage the vehicle. She had a weakness for fast cars herself – though of course she preferred motorcycles – and Phillip’s ride stood out in low town like a racing horse in a herd of donkeys. It was black and quite sportive. Almost fondly she ran a hand over the elegant curve of the engine hood before she set a key to the car and etched four claws into the paint. Every thief in low town would recognize the sign and keep away from the Mercedes, if he knew what was good for him.

Syfa hesitated, before etching a second mark. This was a warning to all members of the Claws that the owner of the car was possible dangerous and should be left alone. Afterwards she went back up to the flat. It didn’t surprise her very much that Marielle and Phillip had moved closer together. They seemed engaged in a very animated conversation. Phillip held Marielle’s hand.

When the two of them noted Syfa, they jumped a little, and after a moment Marielle said: “Phillip is going to stay for a while, Sifaril.”

“Figures,” Syfa muttered. Louder she added: “I’ll be gone for a moment. I won’t be long, mother.”

She went to her room to change before she tiptoed down the hall. Phillip and Marielle had closed the door, which Syfa was grateful for. At least Phillip didn’t see her this way. Quickly she put on her boots and reached for her helmet. A moment later she pounded down the stairs and went for her bike.

 

(‖)

 

 

“The Claws then,” Phillip muttered and smiled reassuringly when he saw Marielle’s face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I am no spy of my father. I don’t plan to tell him I visited here anyway.”

At the last words a hard shine appeared in his eyes.

 

(‖)

 

Syfa rode to headquarters. Sundays there was never much going on, but on every day there was at least one member of the Droma there. Syfa was hoping it would be Mo. Mo collected the pro tax or eliminated people who could not pay. It was common practice to tell him when important strangers were in the area.

A few youths who had no other place to hang around sat in the warm light of the June sun in front of headquarters and played cards. When Syfa entered the yard they moved aside.

“Hi Queen,” one of them greeted and grinned, half proud, half embarrassed when the other teenagers stared at him, admiring him for daring to talk to her.

Syfa took of her helmet and smiled at Tyson. “Have you seen Mo?” she asked.

The boy nodded. “He’s upstairs,” said Tyson, the only one of the group who wore the mark of the claws. Of course that made him a spokesperson among his peers.

Syfa propped up the bike and hurried up the stairs to the Droma. Mo was surprised to see her on a Sunday afternoon, but he composed himself quickly. “Something happened?”

Syfa shrugged. “Got to report someone. From out of town, visiting. I would like this to stay between us. Better if this doesn’t get out.”

Mo raised an eyebrow. “Someone important?”

“Well,” Syfa said, “Phillip von Braunschweig – son of the police governor. Apparently an old friend of my mother.” She made a face.

Mo stared at her. “Seriously?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding to you?”

“Does he know?” Mo asked, ignoring Syfa’s last comment.

She shook her head. “Got no idea. So far, anyway.”

“Want me to send someone over?” Mo asked.

“No, don’t,” Syfa replied. “Too risky.”

“You sure? We could make it look like an accident.”

Syfa considered it, weighing her options. She wanted Phillip gone, yes, but there was his father, who might know where he had gone, and also her own mother. “No,” she decided. “We’ve got enough to worry about with the Skulls. I don’t want the cops here as well. And they would come for sure, accident or not.”

“So you just wanna wait?” Mo asked skeptically. “That’s risky, too. If anyone finds out about this…”

“I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Syfa gave back. “Asides, I can easier beat up Neil again, than get rid of a police-squad. I doubt he’ll stay long anyway. Just send somebody to keep an eye on him when I’m not there – but discreetly. So far he thinks I’m just any member. Speaks slang, by the way.”

“All right,” Mo conceded after a moment. “As you wish. I’ll send someone I can trust.”

“Thanks,” Syfa said. “And remember, this is just between us. I got no desire to fight Neil again.”

“No worries,” Mo assured her. And that was enough for Syfa. Mo had not reached his position by being untrustworthy.

But Mo wasn’t finished yet. “Syfa – have a word with your mother. She can’t go on like this or there will be trouble. I won’t cover you forever.”

Syfa nodded without a word and left.

 

At home Syfa climbed in through the window into her room and changed back to Sifaril. Marielle was busy preparing dinner when Syfa entered the kitchen. Phillip sat on her place and tried to keep out of the way, which wasn’t easy in the tiny room. Heavy silence hung between them; one could feel that the young prince was looking for the right words to say something. His eyes didn’t leave Marielle. As Syfa entered, both flinched.

Marielle didn’t ask where she had been or what she had done. If Sifaril planned to talk about it she would do so. Most of the time, Marielle wasn’t sure if she even wanted to know what her daughter was up to. She did know that most of it was illegal. What would her friends at the gang say if they knew that Sifaril… No, better if no one ever heard about it.

 

After dinner Syfa helped Phillip to get his belongings out of the car and upstairs. He made a face when he ran a finger over the scratches in the paint. “This is the mark of the Claws,” he noticed, touching the four talons. “But what does this mean?”

“Gang code,” Syfa replied short spoken. “It’s a warning to the thieves of the city. How do you know the mark of the Claws, anyway?”

“Give me some credit,” Phillip answered. “I know most gangs of Berlin and their symbols, and it’s not like you Claws weren’t famous enough. Everybody knows you. The gang which cocked a snook at the Crows. Just one of those things you pick up when your father has nothing else on his mind.” He pointed at the symbols next to the entrance. “This one here, for example, means that a member of the Claws lives here, right? The other one...” He scratched his chin. “Strange. Looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”

Syfa fought back a sigh of relief. The other one was her own. The symbol of Syfa the Claw, chieftain of the Claws.

“Will you tell me what it means?” Phillip asked.

“No,” Syfa snapped. “You already know way more than’s good for you. Or me. If anybody higher up finds out you’re here, we’ll both get in trouble.”

What luck Phillip hadn’t shown up when she was wearing her “work clothes” including the necklace with the little claws, or her racing attire. Even the duel with Neil turned out a boon now. With the by now grayish-purple swelling in her face, no make-up, and a new hairdo she looked less than her mug shot than ever. Otherwise he surely would have recognized her. For one from uptown he knew his way around way too well.

“How long have you been with the Claws?” Phillip asked.

Syfa glared at him. “Why do you want to know that?”

Phillip raised his hands. “I can hardly ask you how school is going, can I?”

“I’m not going to school,” Syfa gave back.

“Well, that’s what I guessed,” Phillip said and heaved a suitcase out of the trunk.

“I dropped out when I was twelve,” Syfa added. “That’s when I joined. Knew them before that, of course.” She watched how he lifted another travel bag from the car. “What would you have done if mother had turned you away?”

“I’d have found a hotel somewhere,” Phillip replied. “That was my original plan. Marielle was against it, though.”

“Surprise,” Syfa muttered. “So now you’re gonna kip on our couch?” She took the bag from him and carried it to the door.

“Looks that way,” Phillip replied. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.” He noticed Syfa’s expression and added: “Or at least not too much.”

Syfa laughed without humor. “If mother insists on keeping you I won’t argue with her. Just don’t be surprised when she gets up at five in the morning tomorrow.”

Just before Syfa closed the door of the tenement behind herself she noticed a lean figure on the roof across the yard who waved at her. She nodded back. On Mo one could rely.

 

Yet Syfa got up uncharacteristically early in the next days and spent a lot more time at home than usual to keep an eye on Phillip and to make sure he didn’t get up to something while she was asleep. At the same time she could barely stand his presence since he continually tried to engage her in conversation. She was quite worried he might find out who she really was among the claws. So she spent a lot of time in her tiny room, listening for every sound Phillip made. Most of all she had to make sure the Skulls didn’t get wind of the fact that the police governor’s son was in low town. That might have some quite ugly consequences for her. For Phillip as well, but that was a lesser concern.

She couldn’t sleep at night what she blamed Phillip for, and if she did sleep she had nightmares. Over and over again she saw Tyson, Dal or Lenya brought down by other drivers, crushed between two cars or buried underneath an overturned truck. Chronic lack of sleep and the persistent strain made her even more short tempered than usual, and sometimes, when she saw how Phillip and Marielle held hands, she wondered whether Mo hadn’t been right. Maybe she should have agreed to an accident. Who should follow his trail to her, anyway?

His father, of course.

 

(‖)


	6. In the Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> football, fighting and beer. What else could anybody want from an evening out?

 

In the Zone

 

Lost in thought Malina stared at Jonathan. The members of the racing team had gathered in their corner again and acted all casual, and Jonathan was sitting with his friends. Only two days left to the race. At other tables people were busy betting who of them would make the race, with how much lead, and who would crash. Somebody was also taking bets on how many collisions there would be. Highest rates got those who bet on no deaths. Malina was disgusted.

“Hey, Malina, wake up,” Paria called and poked her. Only reluctantly did Malina turn her gaze away from Jonathan’s profile and went back to work. She was scared for him, very scared, but he only laughed when she asked about the race. All riders laughed about the topic and made snide remarks about the Skulls, but Malina saw in their eyes that they really didn’t like thinking about what was coming. In her head she hoped it would be Rust risking his life on the Autobahn on Saturday, not Jonathan. What was she to do if anything happened to him? He was the only one in all of low town she knew a little.

A very little, if she was honest to herself.

They had spent hardly any time together since he had kissed her on the roof of that watchtower. Sometimes she wondered whether he had lost interest. She felt sick at that thought. Her gaze wandered over to him again. Why couldn’t he look back at her? At least give her a smile?

“I wouldn’t hope about him in your place,” said Lenna next to her. “I’ve tried too, but Jonathan doesn’t _have time_. He’s got to take care of the Claws. One night, if you’re lucky, that’s all you get with him.”

Her words carried the bitterness of the rejected. Malina threw a nervous glance after her when she climbed up to the attic. If Jonathan hat turned down even Lenna, what chance did she stand?

At this moment Jonathan turned around towards her. When he saw Malina’s face he said something to the others and got up and came over.

“You all right?” he asked. “You look like you got a tooth ache.”

“And here comes prince charming,” said Syfa who had followed him. “Gomba, Paria.”

Paria mixed the drink with quick routine and slid the glass towards Syfa. “There you are, Queen.”

“Get me a beer?” Jonathan asked Malina and gave her a radiant smile. Malina blushed scarlet and hurried to fulfill his request.

Without moving and eye from Malina Jonathan asked: “Do you know if Rust is finished with his machine?”

“Should be,” Syfa gave back.

Dal came over. “How about it, guys, we go paint the town red? It’s getting boring hanging around here.”

“Coming along, Malina?” Jonathan asked.

Malina looked up in surprise. “But – I can’t just leave…”

“Nothing going on tonight anyway,” Jonathan replied. “Come on… I’m sure Paria can handle on her own.”

“Where are Lenna and Tami, anyway?” asked Dal.

“Tami’s ill,” explained Paria. “Lenna is upstairs, getting a jacket. She’ll be back in a mo.”

Malina looked at her doubtfully. She didn’t want to leave her alone with the work, but on the other hand… a chance on the privilege to go out with Jonathan again wasn’t turned down lightly.

Paria grinned when she saw her face. “Just get out of here before Lenna comes back and throws a fit.”

Malina smiled gratefully and hurried out holding Jonathan’s hand. When they reached the motorcycles parking in the yard he picked her up and placed her on his bike, before carefully placing sunglasses on her nose, those silvered close-fitting ones cyclist wore against the wind and flies. Malina looked at her reflection on the glossy paint of the bike and laughed, feeling a little nervous at the same time. She had never ridden a bike before. The whole affair seemed rather unstable to her, but she tried very hard not to let it show. Jonathan climbed on the saddle in front of her. She felt a little better when she cut wrap her arms around him.

“Ready?” Syfa asked, before she closed the visor of her helmet. In reply Dal and Jonathan revved their engines. Malina got shaken thoroughly and fastened her grip on Jonathan.

“Where too, anyway?” Jonathan asked over the noise, his voice damped from the helmet.

“The Zone?” Dal gave back. “What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” Syfa called. “Get going.”

And at an unhurried pace they moved through the dark alleys.

 

It didn’t take them long to reach the Zone, the small line between up and low town. At the offices in the Zone clerks and the likes worked at day, but after dawn all kinds of shady figures ambled about here. At a corner some prostitutes looked for customers, in one the thresholds beggars crouched, gangers mixed with workmen and sons of better families looking for a little adventure. In the Zone street lamps and traffic lights worked and every now and then a police car on patrol passed by. Some shops were still open.

From a bar loud music sounded.

For the first time, Malina watched how Syfa, Jonathan and Dal clipped the safeguards onto their bikes and pocketed the keys. No one in low town would have dared to get in their way, but here they didn’t feel quite as safe, even though the symbols on their jackets marked them as high ranking members of the Claws.

The four of them blocked a table in the back of a small bar. At one end of the counter a group of young men in jeans and t-shirts, typical workers’ clothes, on the other end, carefully keeping the distance, a second group had gathered, quite obviously from uptown. Both groups intently watched what was happening on a huge TV-screen underneath the ceiling, where two football teams played. Though the match had only just begun, the atmosphere was already pretty keyed up.

“Herta BSC Berlin versus Turbine Potsdam,“ Dal noted. „Should be interesting.”

“Let’s hope Berlin makes it,” Syfa answered. Jonathan laughed, Malina just nodded. Her brothers both had been fans of Potsdam. She watched the group from uptown.

They were mostly young men; a few girls her age were there as well. They tried to look like gangers, but failed miserably. Real gangers didn’t walk around, shouting “Hey, dude, whasup?” when they met, and they didn’t need any secret handshakes either to find out to which gang they belonged. When gangers met on the street they simply gave a nod, if they were to know each other. They didn’t need to constantly fumble with their knifes or flex their muscles to show how tough they were.

About their clothes… they had put in a lot of effort here. There was hardly a jacket which didn’t sport a skull, but it wasn’t the _right_ skull which gave the authorities sleepless nights, just some fashion label which Malina had never dared to find cool. Some girls had dyed their hair and painted their nails, all wore dark eyeliner, but what looked thrilling or even dangerous on Syfa just looked out of place on these young girls. It was too much, too affected, too forced, like little kids experimenting with mother’s make up.

The boys tried to score with leather jackets and boots, but they just all looked the same, like copies frozen in different positions. Someone had told them that gangers wore black. So they did. But they also wore red and blue and green and pink and all other colors, and if their clothes were torn then it was because they had been worn by older siblings before, or because there just was no money for new ones, not because the wearer thought to look cooler in them. When young gangers wore trousers too big for them then it was because they hadn’t found any that would fit and would grow into them anyway. And they strapped them to their hips firmly, because nobody would risk being hindered by their own pants when running or fighting. On these grownups the low hanging jeans just looked ridiculous, like they couldn’t even dress themselves. Gangers didn’t try to look like gangers. Gangers didn’t act as if the world belonged to them either, because they simply expected the world to know.

“Pitiful,” Syfa muttered, when she followed Malina’s gaze. Then she grinned. “Can you imagine that you used to look like them, Sugar?”

Malina blushed. Was the Queen saying she was finally fitting in? But she had stopped trying…

Suddenly she felt stupid. Of course, that that was the point. _Cool is, whatever I like_ , she thought. _Everything else is just show._

“Malina was never all that bad,” Jonathan chimed in, and now Malina did look rather like a ripe tomato.

Dal guffawed at the sight, and some people at the bar turned around towards them. Syfa and Jonathan didn’t pay them any heed.

Syfa reached into her pocket and pushed a few Mark into Malina’s direction. “Beer run, your turn,” she said, grinning.

Malina didn’t ask “Why me?” since she already knew that the answer came down to “Because I say so.” Instead she took the money and got up. She tried not to let her nervousness show as she pushed through the two groups at the bar. The man behind the counter took her order, but when she tried to pay he pushed the money back. “Tell the Queen this one’s on the house,” he said and nodded towards the three in their corner.

Malina took the bottles, two in each hand, and returned to the others. She gave Syfa her money back and told her what the bar man had said.

Syfa grinned. “Lock at that, a gentleman.”

“He got a score with us?” asked Dal.

“None that I know about,” Jonathan answered. “Maybe he’s just smart enough to get into our good books anyway.”

Syfa leaned back comfortably. “We should come here more often.”

Jonathan put an arm around Malina and pulled her closer. “What, so you can get drunk for free? You can do that at home,” he jeered and kissed Malina’s forehead.

Syfa laughed which made Malina shudder. She was sitting between Jonathan and Syfa and felt uneasy about it. Syfa always made her think of a coil spring under enormous tension just waiting to trigger some horrible weapon. On the other hand she quite enjoyed Jonathan’s arm around her shoulders and his lips on her hair. She just wished they were alone.

The three gangers talked freely. Dal, Jonathan and Syfa were talking shop about motorcycles and different ways of making them go faster, but avoided the topic of the upcoming race. Malina just listened. By now she was almost sitting on Jonathan’s lap and wouldn’t have minded moving over all the way. Now and then the conversation was interrupted by loud cries of rage from the football fans. It looked like they had stumbled upon a hornets’ nest. Malina knew situations like this, where both groups were etching for the fight. The game was just a pre-banter, and an opportunity to gather some Dutch courage. If there was a good opportunity the fight my start before the game was over, provided enough beer had been spilled.

Malina had barely finished the thought when three more characters entered. She recognized the marks of the Crows, one – if not the – most powerful gang of Berlin, above all the oldest. Their chief, Morris the Crow, was ruling since the end of the war thirty years ago.

The three Crows waited at the entrance, took in the situation with one look, and lazily sauntered over to the Claws.

Between Dal, Jonathan and Syfa looks were exchanged, and they got up. Malina hurried to follow their example. It was a gesture of acknowledgment. The Crows noted it with a nod and the gangers sat down, watched by a few uptowners. Maybe they wanted to learn something for their next visit.

The three Crows all had black colored hair; one of them shaved at the sides so that a kind of cock’s comb was formed, all of them wore it long and braided to a ponytail. Black and white feathers as well as red pearls adorned it.

“I’m Jemen,” the oldest of the three began, the one with the cock’s comb, after a moment of silence. “These two are Garth and Ismar. We are honored, Claw.”

Syfa accepted the somewhat formal introduction with a nod. “Send the Crow my regards,” she answered.

With that all necessary formalities seemed to be met and the Crows relaxed. Syfa introduced her companions and the light conversation from before continued. The Crows wanted to know more about the race Saturday, and Syfa and Dal gave their answers readily. To Malina’s pleasant surprise Ismar was sent to pick up the next round of beer. Both groups at the counter were getting quite into the spirit of the thing and tried to predominate each other with their shouted encouragements.

At halftime the score was even. When the referee paused the game, Malina wondered whether the fight was going to start. For a moment it was very quiet and she was already worried the show was about to go down, when she noticed that a larger group of gangers had entered the bar. She didn’t recognize the symbol on their jackets, a pistol crossed with a gun.

“Sons of a Gun,” Jonathan muttered into her ear.

“Enemies?” Malina whispered back when she saw how the Sons seated themselves at the next table. Syfa, Dal and the Crowes had looked very tense for a moment.

“Not yet,” Jonathan answered softly. “The Sons and the Crows are old enemies, though. We actually don’t have much business with them – but that might change, cause the Sons have contracts with the Skulls now. Apparently their chief believes we’ll gonna get the short end of the stick in the fight.”

Malina thought about that. It was hard to imagine that Syfa might lose at anything. What really worried her was the way Jonathan had spoken about fighting. It wasn’t always easy to understand what exactly had been said in Slang, since basically there was no grammar and therefore active, passive or subjunctive all melted down in a huge broth of verbs, but Jonathan had sounded as if a fight with the Skulls was unavoidable – while Malina had thought this insane race was only being held to prevent a gang war.

When she looked at Syfa from the side she noticed that Dal was staring at his chief with whom he lived in constant rivalry as well. Now that she thought about it she realized that he had been doing so for quite a while actually. He seemed almost resigned.

 

During half time the football fans spread a little around the room. One couple stood in a corner, snogging. Malina stared at them with a hint of jealousy. On the one hand she wished Jonathan would kiss her like that, but most certainly not here, in this bar, for everyone to see. She imagined what it would be like if they were back up on their watch tower…

It was strange how much she was in love with him, while at the same time hardly knowing him. She didn’t know anything about his parents, nothing about where he had grown up or how he had become second chief of the Claws. Still she loved his calm security, his face, his voice, and his hands with the long, adroit fingers. Very gently they were running down her spine.

Suddenly a shadow fell onto their table. Malina looked up, just like Jonathan, Syfa, Dal and the Crows. One of the uptowners, somewhere in his thirties, stood there, flanked by two younger men. Only at a second look Malina recognized him, and she felt her heart skip a beat. Then her pulse accelerated. She knew this man – didn’t know him, but should have married him if her parents had had their way. Hans Schmitz, an old friend of the family. And that was the problem, really. He was old. Fifteen years older than Malina. The two younger ones were cousins of her. With their hair styled up like this and the black rags she had barely recognized them. Usually she had seen them in button downs and often with a tie.

“Well, Malina,” Hans hissed in German, “What on earth are you doing here, girl?”

Malina looked away as if he would vanish if she just ignored him.

“I will take you home,” Hans said in a voice that did not bore defying. “Next week we will marry and this farce will end.”

“In your dreams!” Malina cried. She jumped up, both scared and angry. Hans tried to grip her arm. When she dodged him, he cursed.

Jonathan and Dal exchanged clueless looks. On Syfa’s face though, understanding dawned. She whispered something to Jonathan, rose and said to Hans, also in German: “Leave her alone.”

“Stay out of this, girl,” Hans grumbled and tried to push Syfa away.

Silence fell over the table. Hans’s last movement everybody had understood. Even the Sons on the next table looked over, intrigued, and the guy at the bar hurried to safe bottles and glasses.

Malina had wondered what might happen if the coil spring within Syfa was ever strained too much and all the penned up power was relieved at once. She had never wished, though, to be around when it came to that.

It happened in slow motion. Syfa stared at the hand that was still resting on her shoulder, deceptively calm, but her eyes burned with icy blue fire. “Take your filthy hands off of me, bastard,” she hissed.

Hans stared at her as if he just now noticed the other gangers. He seemed to realize that he had maneuvered himself into a rather precarious position, but didn’t want to back down, now that he had everybody’s attention. He gave the Queen another little push.

For the fraction of a second there was absolute silence, followed by the explosion. Hans screamed as Syfa’s fist connected to his face, breaking his nose. Before anyone else could interfere, Syfa had also given him a kick in the crotch, bringing him down. Just as she was about to hurl herself at the helpless man, Jonathan gripped her shoulder. All eyes were on the two of them.

“Leave him to me,” Jonathan demanded from his chief. “Malina is mine, after all.”

After a second, Syfa nodded and stepped aside. Jonathan moved in between her and Hans, who was struggling to find his footing.

“Get up,” Jonathan ordered calmly

Hans managed to get up without help and threw a hateful glare at Syfa who had crossed her arms over her chest and returned his gaze with merciless blue eyes.

“What do you want from Malina?” Jonathan continued.

Malina wondered whether Hans even understood him. Jonathan had never learned to speak proper German, and if Hans spoke slang at all then probably not very well. On the other hand, this was a rather simple question.

“She has to come back with us,” Udo, one of her cousins, chimed in.

“You weren’t asked,” Jonathan snarled at him. Malina blushed when she realized that Jonathan would get into a fight with them over her, if necessary. She felt flattered, somehow.

“We are engaged,” Hans said.

“Not anymore!” Malina retorted. She tried to sound brave but her voice shook a little when she added: “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

She felt how Jonathan put an arm around her. “You heard Malina. Leave now.”

Hans actually looked for the door, when Udo was moving forward. “Not without Malina,” he said. He was drunk. Sober he was an idiot, Malina knew that from experience, but drunk he was said to be dangerous.

Malina tried to take a step backwards to put some distance between herself and her cousin, and Jonathan let go of her.

“You’re family!” Udo cried. “And I won’t allow some hussy like you to bring down the good name of all of us!”

He tried to lunge at Malina, but Jonathan tripped him up and hit him into the neck to bring him down all the way. Franz, his brother, tried to come to his aid. He had a knife in his right hand, but he didn’t seem to know how to use it. Two moves were enough, then Jonathan had the knife, snapped it shut and threw it away heedlessly. Syfa planted a punch on Hans’s chin when he tried to come at Jonathan from behind. More and more uptowners joined in on the scuffle. Dal reached for a bottle and with skilled grip beat it over the table and then over someone’s head. To Malina’s surprise both Crows and Sons came to aid the Claws.

She had covered her face with her hands and barely dared to watch. The workers were joining in as well and poked and punched everything in their way that didn’t wear blue jeans. Utter chaos reigned within the small bar.

Malina felt her arm being gripped. Jonathan was bleeding from the lip, but smiled encouragingly and pulled her out onto the street. One by one the other gangers followed, while workers and uptowners continued the fight with dedication. Syfa was the last one to come outside. She had caught a few scratches as well but smiled with satisfaction. “That pig got his due,” she stated.

“Who was that, anyway?” Jonathan wanted to know.

“My fiancée, Hans Schmitz,” Malina muttered. “The reason I ran away in the first place.”

Jonathan put an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe I should have thanked him,” he said, grinning.

“Is that why you almost let him bolt?” Syfa complained. “Should have trashed him.”

“Was a lot more fun this way, wasn’t it?” Dal countered in his friend’s place.

Behind them a window broke with a crash and a splutter of shards. Syfa turned around and laughed. “Right you are, Dal.” Suddenly she was all high spirits again. “Where to now?”

Malina shuddered. She had had enough for one day, actually. But on the other hand – the night was still young.

“Let’s see what we come across,” Dal said.

They said goodbye to the Crows and nodded at the Sons curtly, taking their leave. Malina had the feeling people were staring after them as they went.

“I wonder what they’ll tell their leader,” Dal said happily. Syfa laughed. For a moment they walked quietly, pushing the bikes along, until Jonathan gently pushed Malina to his other side, so that she didn’t walk between him and Syfa anymore. “You’ve been insulted worse, Queen, without giving them a face job,” he noticed in a casual voice.

“Had a bad day,” Syfa retorted, annoyed.

“You seem to have a lot of them recently,” Jonathan stated. “Don’t you think it’s time to fess up?”

“Nothing to fess up about,” Syfa snarled.

“So why does Mo have your place watched? And what about that swanky car at your door?”

 _Damn it_ , Syfa though and stopped. Sometimes it was just impossible to hide something from Jonathan. “That’s my business,” she replied. She really didn’t feel like hearing Jonathan’s sermon. She knew well enough that she should have made Phillip’s visit public, or told at least him. Her bad conscience didn’t help her mood at all.

“Syfa, if there’s trouble…” Jonathan began, but she cut him off. “Don’t poke your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

They stared at each other, Jonathan worried, Syfa wrathful. For a moment she was afraid he would push the matter but then he looked away. Relieve overcame her. She was not sure what she would have done if he hadn’t give in. No way she would have risked losing face in front of Dal and Malina.

Dal shook his head. “What you need is some distraction,” he said. “How about Up!Down?”

Malina had only heard about the Up!Down. As far as she knew it was Berlin’s biggest club and disco, a place where good girls from uptown didn’t belong. She was looking forward to it. It was said that all the music from the twentieth century was played there, rock and punk and all the music that her parents wouldn’t allow.

 

The Up!Down was packed to the roof. Hundreds, if not thousands of people crowded the five floors up to the roof, danced, tried or kissed in tight embraces. Many of them were drunk.

The four of them didn’t even try to stay together, since it wasn’t really feasible anyway. Jonathan dragged Malina to one of the dance floors. A pleasant tingle ran through her body and made it impossible to stand still. She danced close to Jonathan and soon she had forgotten her surroundings. All that mattered was the music and Jonathan’s arm around her.

At about three a.m. they left the club. Malina noticed that Dal’s and Syfa’s bikes were already gone.

“Mind if I take you to my place?” Jonathan asked.

Malina shook her head quickly and nuzzled herself to his body as he brought them back to low town. Only when they moved through the crowd still clogging up the zone and she saw the whores waving hopefully at passers-by, she realized that Jonathan probably wasn’t taking her home just for a bit of talking and a cup of cocoa.

She closed her eyes. Things between them were going fast, way too fast, like his motorcycle through the narrow streets. She should be telling him to slow down, or to turn up the lights at least, should tell him she wasn’t ready yet, but she kept her mouth shut and just clung even tighter to him whenever the bike leaned into a curve.

Truth was: She didn’t want things to slow down. And she was scared, scared that he would dump her if she turned him down, scared that Lenna was right and that one night of sex was all a girl could get from Jonathan, and scared even more that she wouldn’t have the courage to get back onto this crazy train if she stepped down now.

She didn’t want to clean tables for the rest of her life.

 

Jonathan’s place was small. To Malina’s surprise it was also a dump. Somehow she had thought him to be a neat person, especially since she had heard that he kept headquarters at order. He noticed her face, somewhat embarrassed and said: “Sorry about the mess… I don’t have a lot of visitors.” He grinned and spread his arms. “Just pretend it isn’t there. Make yourself at home.”

Malina let a doubtful gaze wander through the room. The floor was littered with CD’s, dirty laundry, empty pizza cartons, cans, gum wrappers, and other pieces of junk. In a corner several loose spools of wire and a toolbox had toppled over, mixing with all the other stuff on the floor.

“Got any landmines in there?” she asked, teasing. Jonathan laughed and whisked a bunch of clothes off the bed. It was unmade, the sheet was loose at some corners, and spider webs dangled from the ceiling.

“Do you ever clean up?” Malina asked, intrigued. She had never seen a room this messy. Jonathan moved a stack of folded trousers from the bed to a wobbly little table. There the stack toppled and the clean jeans mixed with the laundry.

“Sometimes,” Jonathan replied, and ran a hand, through his hair, sheepish. “Just leave it…” he added when Malina bend down to collect the jeans.

“Did you wash those yourself?” she asked and began to fold them, mostly to ease some of the anxiety she was feeling. She had always imagined her first night with a man to happen on her wedding night, in a matrimonial bed or at the very least a pricy hotel room on her honey moon, not – not at a rubbish tip.

“Um, no,” Jonathan said. “Old granny across the hall. Pays no pro tax and no rent, cleans my stuff in return.”

He sat down on the bed, the only place to sit, really, and pulled Malina with him. She didn’t protest but flinched when he Jonathan opened her blouse.

He noticed her tense. “Your first time?” he asked.

She nodded nervously and he kissed her. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised.

 

(‖)


	7. Phillip on top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He did ask, after all.

 

Phillip on top

 

Phillip was still awake when Syfa came home. He sat in the living room and watched TV. When Syfa banged the door shut he looked up.

“Good night,” he said, not unfriendly.

“Night,” Syfa growled. She was tired and didn’t feel like starting a conversation with him, not after she had nearly attacked Jonathan because of him. She got rid of her boots and went to the bathroom, falling into troubled sleep not much later. When Marielle opened her door as every morning, she woke up despite the early hour. Groaning she opened her eyes, and forced herself to smile when she noticed the worried expression on her mother’s face. The gash on her arm hurt and so did her back.

Marielle insisted on checking on the injury, since Sifaril was already awake anyway. As she opened the bandage, she found that the wound had broken open again. “Did you have another disagreement with Neil?” she asked, sounding concerned.

Syfa shook her head and quickly recalled the meeting with Malina’s fiancée, while Marielle wrapped fresh gauze bandages around her arm. Marielle listened with a worried face, but when Syfa finished, she said quietly: “It was right of you to speak up for Malina.”

Syfa blushed. Of course her mother would think there had been a decent reason behind her outburst, not just a mixture of bad temper and too little sleep.

“Be careful,” Marielle said for goodbye. “And get some more sleep.”

“I’ll try,” Syfa yawned, and tried not to think about the race tomorrow evening. So little time left… She felt sick at the thought. “Bye,” she said. “And have fun.”

She turned around as Marielle closed the door, and heard how Phillip said goodbye for the day as well. It surprised her a little bit that he got up for that every morning. Then she nodded off again.

A few hours later her alarm went off, in itself a highly unusual occurrence. She rose, found herself some breakfast, and listened for the sounds of the building. Everything was quiet. Apparently Phillip had gone back to sleep as well. Could she risk leaving for a few hours? No, better if she stayed.

Syfa wandered up and down the flat like a tiger in its cage. That was exactly what she felt like, trapped, though her captivity was self-chosen. If she had known when Phillip would vanish from her life again, things would have been easier, at least then she would have had a finishing line in front of her eyes. But even he didn’t seem to know how long he was going to stay. And she still couldn’t get rid of him without risking all kinds of trouble.

When Syfa’s thoughts weren’t circling around Phillip, they were with the race tomorrow night, and that was even worse. Soon she couldn’t bear to stay inside, and went downstairs to the yard, lighted by the warm summer sun. From a little shed she got her tools and her motorcycle. It relaxed her to take the bike apart over and over again, putting it back together, changing little things on the engine here and there.

She suppressed a groan when Phillip stepped onto the yard. “Is that your bike?” he asked.

“Seeing anyone else around?” Syfa gave back coolly.

Phillip eyed the streamlined vehicle for a while. “Impressive,” he said finally with an admiring nod. Syfa looked up, annoyed, but she found neither mockery nor irony on his face, only sincerity. “Thanks,” she answered after a moment, still not positive of his motives.

“How fast does she go?” Phillip wanted to know.

“Aren’t you the guy on the other side of the speed traps?” she gave back in a sour mood.

“Not directly, no,” Phillip grinned and sat down on the stairs leading up to the entrance of the tenement house. “So…?”

“Two hundred down here,” Syfa replied before he could repeat his question. “Two-fifty if I can clear the line. Maybe three-twenty, if I can put my hands on some more useable parts.”

“What does your mother say about that?” Phillip inquired.

“Haven’t asked her,” Syfa grumbled. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

“Not right now, I’m afraid.”

Phillip was still smiling, that friendly, patient little smile of his. A politician’s smile. It annoyed Syfa to no end that he wasn’t just playing games with her, but winning too. 

“Screw it!” Syfa groaned. “Just get lost.”

In that instance, Jonathan and Malina came around the corner, hand in hand. “Up already?” Jonathan asked in mock surprise when he noticed Syfa.

“Obviously,” she growled.

“Who’s that?” Jonathan went on.

“Name’s Phillip,” Syfa gave back instead of an introduction.

“Ah,” Jonathan nodded. “Does he ride?”

Syfa sneered. “Hardly speaks slang.”

Phillip had listened with interest. “I understand you well enough. And I do have a license for motorcycles – though of course I have never participated in a race.”

“License,” Syfa repeated derisively.

“So you are from uptown?” Malina asked in German.

“From outside of Berlin,” Phillip answered, switching to German as well. Jonathan looked confused from one to the other. “This is unfair,” he complained.

Syfa grinned. “Thought you wanted to learn it.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Someday I will.”

“Sure…” Syfa jeered. “Was there a special reason you came here, or did you just want to see whether I’m ‘up already’?”

“Dal wants to know if we do a few laps today,” answered Jonathan. “As warm-up for tomorrow.”

“May I ask what will happen tomorrow?” Phillip barged in again.

“No,” Syfa hissed angrily.

“You should keep away from the Autobahn around six tomorrow,” Jonathan advised him.

“Shut the hell up!” Syfa flew into his face.

“Every sane person stays off the Autobahn on a Saturday at six,” Phillip noticed, one eyebrow raised. “Should I tell my father to get his men in position, Sifaril?”

“You shut up too,” Syfa groaned. “I’ve got enough troubles without you two.”

Malina looked from one to the other, confused. Jonathan seemed worried. “Who exactly…” He was more careful now. Apparently it was slowly dawning on him that he had the stranger in front of him who owned the “swanky” car.

“Phillip von Braunschweig and Brandenburg,“ Syfa cut him off. “Son of our most beloved police governor. And apparently an old friend of my mother.”

“Does he know…?” Jonathan left the question unfinished on purpose.

Syfa shrugged. “I hope Marielle had enough wits about her to keep her mouth shut.”

“Now, that really is no way to talk about your mother,” Phillip chastised.

“I’ll talk whatever way I want,” Syfa snapped back.

Suddenly the quiet of noon was broken by the loud roar of engines. The sound came closer fast.

“That’s Dal’s Harley,” Jonathan noted, listening hard. “And Rust. Still got issues with the exhaust.”

“Sounds like four bikes,” Syfa said. “I’d say… Lenya and Tyson.”

“This one goes to you,” Malina said to Syfa when the four did roll onto the yard.

“Sure,” she said content. “I do know my team.”

She raised a hand in greeting, but Jonathan saw how she warned the newcomers with the same motion to be careful. Dal raised an eyebrow questioning when he came closer, and nodded at Phillip.

“That’s Phillip,” Jonathan answered the unspoken question. “He’s from outside.”

Which meant in gang code that he was no member of any gang – or not from low town – therefore not to be trusted and possibly dangerous.

“I see,” Dal said. “Visiting?”

Syfa nodded, and Tyson relaxed a little, while looking almost disappointed at the same time. “Visiting” meant that the person in question should be left alone.

“Mo knows?” Lenya asked.

“Course,” Syfa gave back.

Phillip had followed the short conversation with interest. “Why do I get the feeling that you just exchanged more than just words, Sifaril?”

“Vivid imagination, I guess.”

Malina noticed Dal’s and Lenya’s surprised expressions. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who didn’t know Syfa’s other name. But of course it made sense that she didn’t tell a man from uptown who she was – especially when that man was related to the police governor. Malina did know that both Jonathan and Syfa very pretty high up the wanted lists. Syfa seemed to feel less and less comfortable in Phillip’s presence.

“Why don’t we do a few laps?” Dal suggested before the silence could spread.

“Round the tenements?” Tyson was thrilled at once. “That’d be a new course at least!”

“Let’s say three rounds,” Syfa said. “Otherwise it’s not worth putting back the plate.” She reached into her tool box, and went to work. “So, finished,” she announced after a short time.

“I think I’d like to see this,” Phillip muttered, and rose as Syfa reached for her helmet. The other drivers closed their visors.

“Do we check out the course first?” Rust asked.

The others nodded and with a roar five engines came to life. Syfa took the lead and they sped off. Jonathan, Malina and Phillip stayed at the gate to the yard.

“Is there a point where we can see more?” Phillip asked.

“We could climb up to the roof,” Jonathan suggested. He grinned when he saw Phillip’s expression, and added: “Or we just walk over to that intersection, where we’ll be able to see down two streets.”

“I’ll take the intersection,” Phillip answered. “Heights make me nervous.”

Jonathan shrugged and crossed the street. Not much later, loud noise announced the approaching riders. Syfa and Dal dashed down the street side by side as if they were already fighting for the lead. At the lamppost they had declared starting line, they both jerked their bikes around – Syfa to the left, Dal to the right – doing two perfect bootlegger’ turns, and stopped with screaming tires next to each other.

“Show offs,” Jonathan grinned. The other riders turned their bikes a little more slowly.

Phillip looked impressed.

“Ready, Queen?” Dal called. His visor was open.

A roar of the engine was the answer, and on a sign of Jonathan the five of them rushed towards the watchers at the corner, turned at the intersection, and down the side street. Silent, Phillip stared after them. As the thunder of the engines died away in the afternoon quiet, he looked at Jonathan from the side. “You know, something just dawned on me,” he said cheerfully.

“So…?” Jonathan asked, careful.

“Sifaril d’Atos und Syfa the Claw are one and the same, aren’t they?”

Jonathan didn’t answer. Malina saw how he tensed, ready to defend Syfa or the Claws.

Phillip continued in the same casual voice. “And then you are _that_ Jonathan, second chief of the Claws, right?”

“And if so, then what?” Jonathan asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Phillip replied calmly. “It just explains a few things.”

“What things?” Jonathan demanded to know.

“Well, for example Sifaril’s – Syfa’s – behavior around me.”

Malina interrupted, softly asking in German: “Why are you here, Sir? What does a prince of the country do in Berlin low town?”

“Syfa’s mother and I are old friends,” Phillip answered calmly.

“But you are not…” Malina paused. “You are not… Syfa’s – father?”

Phillip stared at her surprised, but then he laughed. “No. Syfa and I are not related.” More thoughtful he added: “At least I don’t think so.”

He turned around, when loud noise announced the beginning of the second lap. Tyson had broken away a little, Lenya and Syfa followed, Rust and Dal on their back lights. At the next moment they were gone again.

“So, “Phillip picked up the conversation again. “What will happen on the Autobahn tomorrow?”

Jonathan leaned against the house wall, and covered himself in silence. Malina stared at him from the side. She knew he was worried about the race. “Maybe we should… he could warn people.”

“And then what?” Jonathan snapped. “You got any idea into how much trouble Syfa gets, if it comes out that one of us talked? Not to mention us?”

Malina stared at the ground, embarrassed. Phillip looked from one to the other. “May I venture a guess?” he asked. “You don’t have to comment, after all.”

Jonathan thought about it, shrugging after a moment, and Phillip summarized: “Tomorrow at six something will happen at the Autobahn that neither of you is happy about. Dal wanted this race as preparation for another one… and the two of you aren’t allowed to talk about it, so there are probably other gangs involved.” He thought about it, muttering softly to himself. “Motorcycle race… Autobahn… _Autobahn_?!” Shocked, he stared at Jonathan’s blank face. “Oh, good heavens,” he whispered.

Jonathan didn’t say anything, and Malina followed his lead.

“What other gangs are involved in this?” Phillip asked.

Jonathan spit on the ground. “Skulls,” he growled. “Their idea. Syfa pretty much exploded when they put down the conditions, but there were nothing she could do.”

“Maybe Malina is right, Jonathan, maybe I should…” Phillip began, but Jonathan cut him of:

“You shouldn’t even be here! If anyone finds out about you – that there is any connection between Syfa and you – you have no idea what kind of explosion will follow!”

He took a deep breath. “Syfa’s the best chief we got down here, no matter how young she is. But if this gets out – that would break her! She be forced to step back, someone would challenge her – even if the Claws don’t turn on her, she’d lose all credibility, and her treaties with the Crows were null. When that happens, this whole freaking place’ll blow up! Seen the street battles five years ago?”

Phillip nodded thoughtful. He remembered all too well the chaos that had reigned everywhere when the feuds and petty wars of the gangs had last escalated.

 

The race went into the last round. Syfa and Lenya were fighting hard for the lead, Tyson was right behind them. Dal and Rust were waiting for an opening.

“Looks like Lenya will make it,” Malina said, careful, as the five when past in a rush, and looked at Jonathan from the side.

He heaved his shoulders. “Nothing’s decided yet. Rust always waits for the last lap, and Tyson’s always good for a surprise. Just hope Dal don’t make it.”

“Why that?” Malina asked. “I thought you two are friends.”

Jonathan smiled wearily. “We are – but if Dal wins, he’ll overtake Syfa on the charts. After her last stunt that won’t make him team captain, but it undermines Syfa’s authority on the team. And as much as I like Dal, we got no time for that.”

“Shouldn’t the third chief be team captain?” Phillip asked.

“You really do know more than’s healthy for you,” Jonathan retorted and wrinkled his forehead. “No wonder Syfa’s got you under surveillance.”

He sighed. “Yeah, third chief should be team captain. Thing is, the Claws don’t have one. Derrek was third chief and team captain, until Cluny made him take Syfa on the team. She deposed him pretty soon of his position, and after she was made chief she refused to give up the post. Lots of people here aren’t exactly happy about that.”

Suddenly he pushed of the wall he had leaned against and stepped onto the street. “You hear that?” he asked.

“What?” Phillip asked.

“Sirens,” said Malina softly. “Could that be a fire?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Police, and getting closer.” He stared up to the windows around, which blinked like eyes from the walls. “One of the good citizens here must have called the cops.” Jonathan turned to Phillip: “Wanna hang around, wait for your buddies? Malina and I better get going.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Phillip noted.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Jonathan asked, annoyed. “We are Claws. Living is a crime from us – as you know very well. Come on, Malina,” he added, just when a patrol car came around the corner. “Aw, crap,” he whispered.

Then he ran, followed closely by Malina. Phillip followed them after a moment of hesitation. He was curious where this would all lead to. Jonathan turned into a backyard. Car doors pounded, slammed shut and somebody called: “Halt! Police!”

Jonathan wasn’t stopped by that. With a forceful motion he kicked open the door to the next tenement house surrounding the yard. “In here,” he called, half turning to Malina. One after the other they hastened up the stairs, until they stood in front of a door secured with a heavy padlock. A grim smile appeared on Jonathan’s face, and he pulled out a piece of wire. Despite the pounding steps on the stairs behind him, his hands were perfectly still, and within seconds he had picked the lock.

As soon as they were up in the attic, he blocked the door again with the heavy lock, and looked around. On a line a few pieces of clothing hang. The only light came in through a dirty little window. Without hesitation, Jonathan reached for a sheet, wrapping it around his hands and forearm quickly, before he broke the window with one blow. Shards tinkled to the ground when he removed the rests of the pane. The steps outside came closer.

“Quick,” Jonathan hissed, and helped Malina through the opening. Phillip felt quite queasy at the prospect of fleeing across a roof eight stories above the ground from the men of his father.

“You coming?” Jonathan asked angrily.

Phillip gathered his wits and followed Malina with Jonathan’s help through the small opening. When Jonathan climbed out behind him the first policeman started shooting the door. Nimbly Jonathan climbed through the window. He grinned widely. “Let’s see what balls the cops got,” he said, and with sleep-walking security, he made his way across the roof.

Phillip felt a little sick. A strong breeze blew above Berlin, and a few shingles were loose. On hands and knees he followed Malina, who looked rather insecure as well, and avoided it carefully to look down. After a few minutes of reckless climbing, they reached a fire flight. Phillip could hardly wait to get down again. His hands and feet were shaking violently.

“Careful,” Jonathan muttered as Phillip’s foot missed the first step of the ladder. He waited until Malina was safely standing on the ladder as well, and followed last.

When Phillip finally reached the ground he was panting hard and sweat stood on his forehead. But the hunt wasn’t over yet. Two policemen just stormed out of the building, over which’s roof they had just fled.

“Damn it,” Jonathan swore, “those guys are stubborn.”

With the cops on their heels, Jonathan started off again, leading them through a passage between two buildings, via a row of backyards, and through one dark, spider-infested basement. A quarter of an hour later, they were back at the intersection where the race had started. Syfa and her friends were already waiting for them. A deserted patrol car with four flat tires stood at the entrance of the tenement they had climbed the roof of.

Syfa nodded to the demolished vehicle, and said: “Climb up. The pigs are gonna be here in a moment, looking for their Maria.”

Jonathan climbed up behind Dal, and Malina somewhat hesitating behind Lenya. Both put on sunglasses.

“What’cha waiting for, Phil?” Syfa called. “Get over here!”

Only reluctantly Phillip followed the order. Syfa, in leatherjacket and army pants, did not exactly look trustworthy, and her racing machine wasn’t really made for two people. But when another patrol car and two policemen on motorcycles rounded the corner, he decided that this was no good time to argue, and mounted the bike behind Syfa.

“Hold on,” Syfa yelled, and dropped her visor. With insane speed they rushed off, and all Phillip could do was hold on as tightly as he could. The wind drove tears into his eyes, and blinded him, communication was impossible over the thunder of the engines. Once he felt how Syfa took a hand from the handle and gesticulated to the other riders, but he had no idea what the wink was supposed to mean.

After a while he dared to loosen his grip just a little, and look over his shoulder. The police was still close behind them. A moment later, when Syfa slowed at a corner, he noticed the wide grin on Jonathan’s face, and he realized that the gangers were playing cat and mouse with the officers. He looked ahead again, and wished he had brought glasses as well. They might have taken the worst edge of the head wind.

Despite his uncomfortable situation, Phillip couldn’t help but admire the skill with which the young riders wriggled their way through the labyrinth that was low town. More than once they could have left their pursuers behind easily, but for some reason they seemed quite eager not to lose the police men. After a while, Phillip realized they were reaching the city’s outskirts. His pulse skipped a beat as they ran straight over a red light and onto the Autobahn. Syfa’s wild laughter put goose bumps onto his back.

On the early afternoon, long before rush hour, the Autobahn was comparatively empty, and both the gangers and the police behind them could tease everything out of their engines. Phillip wished he could see the speedometer, even though he was totally tear blind. As well as he could he huddled behind Syfa to give the wind less area to attack. Even so he thought he could see the angry expressions of the drivers in the cars around them.

Only now the five young riders got rid of the police and returned to low town. Phillip could feel that Syfa was still shaken by wild fits of laughter, but the hands on the handle were perfectly steady.

Back in low town, Syfa finally slowed down, and on some yard somewhere between a wall of tenement houses they finally stopped. Very slowly Phillip relaxed his cramped up arms, and climbed off Syfa’s bike, almost falling when his wobbly knees trembled. On Jonathan’s and Malina’s face were expressions of wild elation.

“That was cool,” Malina breathed.

Syfa took of her helmet, and laughing she shook her green-brown mane. “Well, you did want to know how fast my bike can go,” she said to Phillip and put the machine on kickstand.

“…that was pure madness,” Phillip finally managed.

The others laughed loudly, and four bikes were started again. One after the other, still laughing, Dal, Lenya, Rust and Tyson left and vanished in the street valleys of Berlin low town. 


End file.
